


Cat and Wolf

by Zephex



Category: Miraculous Ladybug, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abused Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir, Abusive Gabriel Agreste, Adrien Agreste Is Sunshine, Adrien Agreste Needs Help, Adrien Agreste Protection Squad, Adrien Agreste Whump, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir Acts Like a Cat, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir Identity Reveal, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir Purrs, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir-centric, Allison Argent Lives, Alya Césaire | Rena Rouge Cares, Angst, Anxiety, Author depends completely on google translate for the French language, Author has ADHD...and it shows, Bad Parent Gabriel Agreste, Badass Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Canon has been broken down and used for spare parts, Cat Adrien Agreste, Cat/Human Hybrid Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir, Chat Noir Cuddles Everyone, Chat Noir Whump, Chat is pronounced Cat in this story, Child Abuse, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Derek get's a soft spot for our favorite kitty, Don't expect the timelines to match, Eating Disorders, Expanded Miraculous Lore, F/M, Feed Adrien Agreste, Hale Pack kind of adopts Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir (temporarily), Hot Mess Adrien Agreste, Hurt Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir, Hurt/Comfort, I've modified the timelines of both shows, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Injured Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir, Ladybug will fight anyone who hurts her kitty, M/M, Magic, Marinette Dupain-Cheng Finds Out First, Marinette is doing her best, Neglected Adrien Agreste, Nino Lahiffe | Carapace Cares, Not fully Human Marinette Dupain-Cheng, Not fully human Adrien Agreste, Panic Attacks, Parent Plagg (Miraculous Ladybug), Plagg Acting as Adrien Agreste's Parental Figure, Platonic Cuddling, Poor Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir, Powerful Chat Noir, Protect Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir, Protective Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Protective Plagg (Miraculous Ladybug), Sassy Stiles Stilinski, Self-Loathing, Sick Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Strong Marinette Dupain-Cheng, Supernatural Elements, The kitty is in trouble, Touch Starved Adrien Agreste, Trust Issues, Werewolves, Witchcraft, Witches, possessive Plagg, powerful ladybug, send help
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:20:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23299984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zephex/pseuds/Zephex
Summary: Being the physical manifestation of destruction and misfortune was about as unlucky as one would expect...  And with that innate power, came certain complications for Chat Noir that are not so much an issue for his red-clad counterpart....Malevolent forces are at play when Adrien is summoned to Beacon Hills in the middle of the night, drawing the attention and involvement of Stiles and the Hale pack.  Plagg suspects someone is looking to exploit Adrien's inborn energy, putting the boy's life and sanity at risk.  Hidden trauma is drawn to the surface, gnawing and haunting.  The supernatural in Beacon Hills have stirred.  And Marinette, desperate to find the two boys so deeply important to her, soon learns she must fight her way to save her best friend...or lose him forever...
Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir & Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir & Plagg, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir & Stiles Stilinski, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir & The Hale Pack, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 148
Kudos: 284





	1. Cat

**Author's Note:**

> A few notes before you begin:  
> (May contain spoilers for people who haven't seen both shows, proceed with caution!)
> 
> 1\. The timeline for both shows has been altered, and canon has been stripped for parts in some areas.
> 
> 2\. Chat Noir and Ladybug have been heroes for about a year now, both are 14. "Chat" is pronounced like "cat" in both this story and my head; do whatever you will, though. More details for them will be discussed in the actual story.
> 
> 3\. Stiles and the pack are sophomores in high school; all the supernatural stuff started in their freshman year, so they are all around 16 years old. Derek (20 years) is the alpha and Scott and the others are all in his pack. Allison is alive.
> 
> *Author has a random tendency to edit things often.
> 
> Please enjoy! :D

The jolt was so sudden, so painful, that the cry it drew from his throat peaked into an octave not often achieved.

“Kid? _Kid!”_

He was soaked from head to toe, huffing out visible puffs of breath into the autumnal air as his limbs trembled violently. 

“Kid! I really need you to either say something or look at me…right _now_!”

A radiating ache echoed across his body, as if his bones were settling back into the space beneath his skin, reassembling a broken figurine. A dark splotch was shifting in his vista, the presence seemingly urgent, though his emerald eyes blinked slowly and uncomprehendingly for minutes as the blurry world leisurely refined itself.

Something in the back of his mind rang with recognition, with familiarity despite the fogginess that clung to him. His jaw worked through with little regard to the seemingly lead weight tied to his tongue.

“… _Plagg…_?” The name was produced more slurred than intelligible speech and were it not for the proximity of the steadily clearing creature in his sight, he doubted the whisper would have been heard.

“Oh, thank goodness!” came the relieved reply, desperation still lingering along the edges of the words. Plagg relished at how his chosen was finally able to focus on him and seemed to have gained some amount of awareness. “You had me worried there, Kid!” The mumbled apology, although still working on clarity in pronunciation, showed more improvement.

Adrien scrutinized the kwami for a few moments longer, breathing through the ache still pulsing through his limbs, trying to make sense of their current predicament. Because the last thing he remembered was laying down to sleep in his bed and now he was staring up at the canopy of a forest illuminated by the full moon, laying on top of an enormous tree stump, and soaking wet. The last bit was strange on top of strange, considering the only things damp were himself and the tree stump, the rest of the surrounding ground and trees were dry.

“What…What happened?” he asked, gingerly moving to sit up on the stump and wrapping his arms around himself to contain what little body heat he had left. Water dripped lazily off his hair and the tip of his nose, his lungs ventilating air unevenly beneath his breastbone.

Plagg’s face raced through an assortment of emotions before settling on some combination of troubled and vexed. “Let’s just say that someone may have dabbled in some very old and very dangerous magic.”

Adrien’s eyes became impossibly larger, a shiver wracking his thin frame. He looked sick. “ _Magic_?!” he gasped, surprise painting his features almost comically if the situation wasn’t so serious. “But Master Fu – I thought…Is it another miraculous?”

The cat kwami shook his head—a quick, aborted motion—acid green eyes darting around suspiciously, almost agitatedly, which put the blond teen on edge. “No, not another miraculous _._ This is…something else. A different kind of magic.”

His chosen’s breathing had yet to settle into anything resembling normal, and the splotchy bruises on his arms stood out against his pale skin. Even the blooms of violet which Plagg knew were layered over swathes of green and yellow were mildly notable on the boy’s torso through the white shirt, translucent with moisture, as it clung to his overly thin frame. The pain he was surely experiencing was all too evident in his expression and body language.

However, there were some pressing details his kit had yet to take note of, and the kwami was not keen on having to explain them in such circumstances, particularly when he needed to get Adrien to move somewhere—anywhere—that wasn’t here. Quickly.

Bright emerald eyes cut through him though. 

An amendment to the initial course of action. 

He would be remiss to delay an explanation considering the unknowns in this situation. Because Adrien was clearly confused, and rightfully so, particularly when an occurrence such as this hadn’t been conducted in centuries. And lying to Adrien was something Plagg would _never_ do. The bond and the trust they’d cultivated over the past year was treasured. A deep sigh escaped the magical being, considering the methods to explicate the scope of his knowledge.

“Look, Kid. I don’t have enough time to explain all the details, and there are some unknowns, but I need you to remain calm.” The irony, considering the chaos brewing inside the cat kwami presently. 

Adrien nodded, moving his hand to brush his bangs from his eyes, only to freeze abruptly. What felt like horror sloshed at the base of his belly, and his ragged breaths stuttered to a stop—only to resume at twice the speed originally, his second hand shaking as it plunged into the golden locks on his head.

Plagg had always been astounded at the boy’s ability to stumble across discoveries like it was his job.

“Ah…yeah. That’s something I meant to tell you about…” Plagg tried, lamely, tiny shoulders shrugging helplessly.

Adrien raked his hands along what felt like two very _real_ cat ears at the top of his head, noting how the appendages had feeling and moved independently in response to his frantic probing. The sensation of having cat ears was not novel, considering his frequent moonlighting as Chat Noir; however, the prospect of having two real, functioning cat ears on his head—particularly when he was _not_ transformed—was jarring.

He was _not_ calm.

Now hyperaware of himself, a swishing motion in the corner of his eye escalated him into a full-blown panic. Because that was a _tail_ and it was _his_.

“PLAGG!!!” came the shriek, followed closely by a yelp when he’d yanked on the appendage and felt a jolt of pain in response.

The kwami swooped over and placed tiny paws on Adrien’s hands, trying to pacify the teen. “Okay, it’s actually not as bad as you think!”

“What do you mean it’s not as bad as I think?” the blond countered through uneven breaths and a voice so high pitched it was astounding. “I have cat _ears_ …and a _tail_!!” 

“Technically you have four ears presently—”

“ _Plagg!_ ”

“Okay, okay!” he amended, subtly purring in an attempt to calm his chosen. Anxiety was far too common an occurrence in the young boy’s life; Plagg suspected he perhaps had some form of panic disorder—justified based on the life he had—though the chances of gaining treatment were nonexistent when one considered the conditions of his household…

And the situation was not improving. They had to move. Because something was off about the tree stump Adrien materialized on, and the magic that emanated from the area had the distinct impression of druid magic, which only increased the kwami’s desire to vacate the area.

“Listen, Kit,” Plagg began again, “first, I really need you to calm down.” Meeting the teen’s freaked stare, Plagg torpidly blinked and took exaggerated, yet measured breaths. A brief pause, before the boy slowly blinked back and attempted to mirror the deliberate breathing, bringing the kwami some semblance of relief. Precious seconds slipped by, but this was necessary.

“I know this is happening very fast…The ears and tail are tied to the miraculous, I’ll explain it all later, but that’s not the most pressing matter. We need to leave this place, now. Because whatever it is that summoned you here is not something we want to get involved with. So please, Kit, I need you to trust me and _move_.”

Adrien’s body was shaking almost violently at this point, but despite the obvious discomfort, alarm, and confusion swirling inside him, his large eyes belayed a trust so rarely given from the child. His lips pressed into a line, visibly stifling a wave of queries, head bobbing in a rigid motion of acquiescence before he was gingerly extricating himself from his perch.

Bare feet pressed into the foliage at the base of the tree stump, the crackle of leaves giving way into the earth beneath as the miraculous holder sluggishly followed his kwami deeper into the woods.

* * *

Stiles sat ramrod straight with a gasp, feeling a disturbing wave of magic jolt through him, amber eyes glowing briefly as he registered the resounding energy. This wasn’t anything he’d experienced before. It was nearly overwhelming; he could practically taste the magic as the impact of the spell reached his senses.

Derek and Scott were already on their feet, gazes transfixed on the only human in their midst, recognizing his reaction as being important. Erica and Boyd roused from their collective nap on the couch, sensing the change in the room; Isaac quietly edging himself back into the living room from his trip to the kitchen for snacks; while Jackson merely cocked his head to assess the situation from the corner of the room. Lydia and Malia were absent from this particular pack meeting.

“Stiles,” came Derek’s stern intonation. It was a question as much as it was a declaration.

The human in question released a wavering breath, taking pause to extend a tendril of power in an effort to find the origin of the disturbance. No one questioned his lack of immediate response—which was generally unnatural for the ADHD teen—simply waiting as he visibly collected himself, eyes finally dimming from their alighted state after a moment.

He turned to Derek, skin tingling from the residual spell that his sixth sense resonated with. He began, throat mildly dry, “It feels like…like a powerful spell was cast. I’ve never felt this type of magic before.”

“You mean, just now?” Scott asked, concern painting his face.

Stiles nodded, eyes shifting to look at his hands briefly before once again meeting gazes with the imposing alpha to the right of his best friend. Derek had a tightness in his stance, an air of uneasiness and alertness the teen was sadly familiar with. Because when Stiles typically sensed the use of foreign magic, it never bode well for the pack – or Beacon Hills for that matter. 

“Can you tell what kind of spell it is?” Erica chimed in. 

The pack had become a bit more familiar with Stiles’ capabilities following the discovery of his access to magic a few months prior. A “Spark” is what Deaton had referred to him as, someone with an inborn affinity for magic and the capacity to manipulate it. Suffice to say the subsequent weeks found the teen immersed in numerous books regarding the magical arts and attending lessons with Deaton to practice his innate abilities; the result had only served to strengthen the pack and their bond. A Spark was rare, as compared to other magical users like witches and druids; the presence of one was immeasurably advantageous as their power typically served to amplify the strength of other supernatural beings.

Stiles had delighted in the discovery, feeling as though there was finally a way he could contribute more to the pack. Derek, however, had not taken as kindly to the development. Stiles had refused the alpha’s demands to abstain from involvement in the frequent supernatural perils so ubiquitous in Beacon Hills, which resulted in dissonance that had set the whole pack on edge.

The current state of Derek’s sentiments was yet strenuous, but as the weeks passed and Stiles honed his talents, they’d come to an agreement of sorts where Stiles was allowed involvement with the stipulation that he remained on the periphery of any potential fight.

Stiles bobbed his head at Erica’s question, remarking, “Something very powerful was summoned.”

At this, Derek’s demeanor turned deadly. “ _Where_?!” he growled, eyes flashing ruby beneath his brow, canines sharpening slightly as he bared his teeth.

The sixteen-year-old scowled at the older male, rising from his seat on the couch and pocketing his cellphone. “I’ll direct you—”

“ _No_.” Derek stepped into Stiles’ personal space, heated glare boring holes into the other.

The teen was not impressed. “I’m going,” he stated with an air of finality, stance firm and gaze unwavering in the wake of the alpha’s reproach, having no patience for the Sourwolf’s hardheadedness.

The stalemate lasted the better part of three minutes, wherein the surrounding werewolves silently observed the battle of wits between their alpha and their human who was, at this point, likely their second in command. Alas, it seemed Derek and Stiles were none the wiser. Despite this, it was undeniable to the remainder of the pack—to the extent that bets were placed on which of the two would realize it first. Scott had even admitted he likely placed third in command.

The moment the standoff collapsed was the moment Derek grabbed Stiles by the collar of his shirt and snarled, “If you so much as place one _foot_ in the way, so help me I’ll kill you myself!” The younger male shoved him off, fixing his attire before responding with a wicked smirk, strolling toward the front door as the rest of the pack moved to follow.

Outside the restored Hale house, the uneasiness of the young wolves was palpable, because, despite the predictable quarrel between their Spark and their alpha, Stiles’ bravado quickly crumbled as he tuned back in to the magical signature he’d earlier sensed. Trepidation rolled off his person, a notable scent to the surrounding pack.

Derek addressed the teens as he exited the house, voice terse. “Follow my lead and tread cautiously. If you catch a scent, you let me know immediately. No individual pursuit. We don’t know what we’re dealing with.” 

He didn’t wait for confirmation of his orders, merely approached Stiles as he shifted, claws and canines sprouting, features morphing into the in-between of human and wolf. Derek glanced down at the other, nodding as Stiles reached out to place a palm on his shoulder, hand glowing, and feeling the sensation of energy flow into his body allowing him access to a full shift.

Bones snapped, fused, muscle and flesh rearranging, body bowing as anatomy shifted into that of a fully formed wolf. The Spark waited until the shift completed and glowing red eyes looked back up at him before moving closer. Derek’s full shift was larger than that of a regular wolf; the consensus was that it was a result of both Derek’s alpha status and Stiles’ magical augmentation.

It served them well enough as Derek lowered his body, allowing Stiles to toss a leg over his back and mount the black wolf, grabbing a handful of fur and curling into the alpha. The pack gathered near, all “wolfed-out” as Stiles had humorously dubbed the wolf-human hybrid state. Stiles then gathered breath inside him, located the magical signature, and pointed to the northeast.

A deep, colossal howl erupted from the alpha’s throat, reverberating into the night air, followed closely with responding howls as the pack thrust forward into the woods.

The hunt had begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you all think! I'm a sucker for comments. They are my life sustenance!! ;3


	2. Wolf

The sound of a wolf’s howl echoing through the forest startled Adrien, causing him to recoil so strongly his heel caught on a root and he tumbled backward, careening down an embankment. The thick layer of leaves on the ground made it nearly impossible to gain purchase, so his body slid and toppled down the sloped earth, roughly encountering both rock and root before finally coming to a stop where the terrain leveled nearby a creek.

Plagg swooped down after the boy, frantically looking him over. “ _Adrien_!” he cried, cursing the bad luck that plagued his chosen and raking his eyes along the child’s body.

The boy stirred from where he landed on his back and quickly curled up onto his side, arms wrapping around his left hip, eyes squeezed shut and face scrunched in blatant agony. Fat tears streamed from Adrien’s eyes, rolling down his cheeks and dripping from his nose as he curled into himself further, tiny, pitiful mewls of pain between ragged breaths carving holes into the kwami’s heart.

The fact that Adrien had learned to cry so quietly stirred a feral sort of loathing inside Plagg. Because he knew the reason why. And the only thing that had kept him from _permanently_ ending the cause of Adrien’s suffering was Adrien himself. The physical manifestation of destruction and misfortune in this world was the gentlest, the most tender child Plagg had ever met. 

He always had been…

A faint sound in the distance made itself known and the cat kwami had the distinct impression that the wolf howls were something they should be concerned about. He glanced back at his chosen who, by the way the black cat ears on his head flicked and pivoted, also seemed to have heard.

A quiet sniff; Plagg’s acid green eyes met wet emerald ones.

“…Can you move?” He hated to ask, the question almost heartless considering the teen’s state, but they had barely traversed a mile from their point of origin and the faint sound heard moments before steadily established to that of footfalls. Pursuit. And the hunters were gaining ground, rapidly.

Adrien bit back a sob, body smeared with dirt and blood from newly earned scrapes, new bruises settling in with older ones to create an almost rainbow across pale, clammy skin, and nodded an affirmative to the question. 

The way the teen’s quivering body labored to sit upright, however, indicated otherwise.

So Plagg stopped him when he finally sat up, worry morphing the magical being’s face and tone. “Change of plan,” he blurted. “I was hoping we wouldn’t have to rely on transforming, because whatever spell summoned us here took a heavy toll on my energy levels as it did yours. But we just don’t have many options right now…” The blond teen silently extended his arms up, cupping his hands so that the little kwami could settle into his palms before bringing the cat close to his face. “We won’t be able to hold the transformation for long even if you don’t use Cataclysm,” Plagg continued, looking up at his chosen, concern and affection radiating, “but I can alleviate most of the pain and we can try to get out of these woods at least.”

A fond look crossed Adrien’s features and a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Okay,” he finally spoke, breaking the abnormal quiet that had overcome him, and quickly brought his kwami toward his face, nuzzling him briefly.

The responding purr from the kwami was oddly amplified, and it took Plagg a moment to realize that it was because Adrien was unknowingly purring back softly, the vibration melding with the kwami’s own. It was a weak, pained sound, loving but also pleading, asking for relief owing to the boy’s injuries. And this brought too many emotions to war inside Plagg.

The magical being did not bring this up, however. The onset of cat-like attributes such as this would have normally manifest steadily over time, but this was definitely not the case. Still, despite the circumstances, Plagg allowed himself to relish in this brief, tender moment with his chosen, gently wiping away a stray tear that rolled its way down the kid’s face before reluctantly pulling away.

“Let’s go, kit.”

A nod and a watery smile. “Okay…Plagg, claws out!”

* * *

The pack skid to a stop, recognition putting them even more on edge.

The Nemeton.

Stiles was rigid on Derek’s back, looking discomforted at the location the spell’s signature had led them towards. And to think that the Nemeton was allowing itself to be found was concerning in and of itself. The beheaded tree felt alive, energy pulsing in a way he’d never experienced before. And there was that new magical signature he’d vaguely sensed earlier, much stronger now and permeating the area atop the Nemeton.

Scott looked agitated; glare fixed on the tree stump. “Why are we here?” he nearly spat, glancing over as Stiles dismounted Derek’s back and cautiously approached the ancient tree. 

“Because,” Stiles began, hand hovering inches from the flat top of the tree, “this is where the summoned being manifested. The signature led me here.”

“It’s…wet. Is that normal?” Isaac asked, peering at the Nemeton and the surrounding ground that was evidently dry.

“A byproduct of the summoning spell,” Stiles remarked, gingerly setting his hand on the tree despite Derek’s warning growl. Immediately a tendril of magic shot up his arm and he recoiled slightly, as though touching something hot. At this point, Derek snatched a mouthful of Stiles’ hoodie and yanked him back.

“Well, whatever it was, it’s not here,” Jackson finally gave his two-cents worth of observation. He hadn’t been in the best of moods since their morning training that day where Scott had laid him out during combat training.

Boyd jerked his head, stating, “There’s a scent trekking north from here. It’s not far.”

“Definitely never smelled… _him_ before,” Erica contributed, giving the air additional whiffs. 

“You can tell it’s a dude…?” Jackson blurted, head whipping over to look at the blonde. Apparently, curiosity overruled a crappy attitude.

To this, Erica smirked, popping out a hip to rest her hand on and winked. “Yes,” she said sweetly, “I’ve gotten familiar with the differences in scent between the _sex_ hormones.”

“Okay, _no_. I do not need to hear this,” Stiles shot out. Derek seemingly agreed, as the low growl that emanated from his chest silenced the dialogue.

“Is that scent the same thing we’re looking for, Stiles?” Scott asked after a moment.

The Spark nodded in confirmation.

A sharp bark came from Derek, drawing all eyes to him. His red gaze met Stiles’ for an instant, but before the human could respond, the black wolf shot out northward. Jackson, Boyd, and Erica swiftly followed; Isaac gave a meek smile and waved his fingers before taking off as well.

“What the fuck?!” Stiles yelled, livid.

“Sorry, bro,” Scott apologized, walking backward slowly toward where the others had gone. Stiles stared back, mouth agape. “He doesn’t want you mixed up in this…”

The teen stepped forward, pointing an accusing finger at his supposed “best friend” who was clearly about to take off without him. “Scott, don’t you dare!”

The werewolf merely held his hands up, taking a few more steps back. “I’m really sorry, Stiles.”

Stiles had just opened his mouth to lay into the other teen when Scott turned tail and ran.

“ _Fuck!_ ” he bellowed, slamming his heel into the forest floor. “You all are _so_ paying for this!”

Stiles quickly waved his hand, tuning into the trail left behind by whatever was summoned and took off running. He may not have the advantage of scent and speed like the other members of his pack, but he _did_ have his affinity to magic; he could track it. And he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to be a part of this. Derek could take his “concerns” and shove them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a short one, but I hope you all will like it!
> 
> Lemme know what you think! :D
> 
> Peace out! *w*


	3. Claws Out

The pain and biting cold that had radiated throughout his body were notably lessened the moment the transformation washed over him. Enchanted, leather-like fabric knit itself around his body, lending support and warmth against the autumn air. It was ridiculously easier to breathe, and the ache was merely background noise; his senses amplified as per usual.

Taking quick stock of himself, he noted that the real, functioning cat ears had remained on his head. The long, black tail extending from the base of his spine persisted as well, reaching a few inches past the length of his legs; the belt he typically sported simply sat strapped at his hips. If he focused, he realized, the extra appendages would move according to his will, but there was also a sense that they primarily moved independently, similar to the way one’s lungs would ventilate air without prompt.

Hearing the footfalls in the distance reaping ground, he refocused and took off sprinting, relishing in the advantage of his night vision and augmented speed. It didn’t take him long to realize how much more stable he was as he ran, feeling the way his tail naturally counterbalanced his body as needed, allowing for sharper turns and seamless transitions from quadrupedal to bipedal strides.

It was strange, in a lot of ways, that he actually felt vaguely comforted by the extra appendages, as though he was almost… _missing_ …them before. Still, aversion to the presence of them was extant when he considered his human form. _That_ would not be easy to explain, or hide for that matter.

After what felt like fifteen minutes of hard, assiduous running, though, he started to notice the gradual depletion in the energy afforded him by the transformation. His lungs swelled and collapsed heavily in his chest, progressively easing back into the ragged pattern present when he’d first awakened in the forest. Realization brought with it tendrils of dread, because he could still hear the treading of his pursuers behind him, weighty huffs of air intermingling, and they had been gaining ground increasingly with each passing minute.

Chat Noir, in his prime, had immense speed and commendable endurance. His current state was not so fortunate, and broad endurance was more a trait of wolves, who frequently outpaced and took down prey by running them into exhaustion.

As it was, desperation began to settle into his bones with each passing second that he could _tell_ the pursuers were catching up to him. Plagg’s warning that the transformation would not last rang in the back of his mind and he made a rash decision.

It was a mistake.

He veered left sharply, shooting up into the trees, hoping to cut back and cross the creek, have them lose his trail the moment he managed an opportunity to mask his scent. But he miscalculated the strength of one of the branches he leapt onto, too preoccupied by planning his route, and felt the wooden appendage crack and give under his weight the second he landed.

A sharp cry of surprise escaped him as he violently tumbled onto the ground for the second time that night, his suit only marginally cushioning the fall. In the precious moments he was dazedly attempting to gain his bearings, the thundering sound of footfalls managed to reach him, and a wave of panic swathed him as he slowly looked up at his pursuers.

* * *

Derek was not taken as a fool when their prey took an abrupt turn, seemingly looking to throw them off his tail, and followed the scent closely. Only moments later a crack preceded a cry of surprise, the following sounds indicating their target had an unfortunate collapse.

He picked up speed, covering the remaining hundred meters and darting around the last few trees and roots before finally catching up to their objective.

The pack immediately fanned out around the figure that was slowly picking itself up off the ground, standing upright after a trice.

Upon seeing their prey, uncertainty was mirrored across the gathering.

It was a boy, young by the looks of it, clothed from the neck down in a subtly lustrous black suit that hugged his thin form like a second skin. Evidence for the preternatural was blatant with the black cat ears pivoting at the top of his head and the long tail that flicked and curled behind him – likely a form of shapeshifter similar to werewolves, but one Derek had never laid eyes on before.

The stench of fear and adrenalin wafted heavily off the boy, and, as he looked up at the surrounding werewolves, enormous sea green eyes became visible, framed by a black mask covering half his face. His sclerae were a lighter shade of green than his irises—chartreuse in color—and the slitted pupils only added to the ethereal appearance.

At the sight of the werewolves surrounding him the boy instantly dropped his center of gravity, cat ears flattening on his head and eyes narrowing as a hiss erupted from his throat, sharp canines—fangs—flashing in warning. His tail whipped behind him, fur standing on end; even the wild blond locks on his head seemed to have puffed up. His hand reached behind him and retrieved what looked to be a metal baton, which extended to the length of a staff as he brought it before himself defensively; thin fingers ending in sharp claws curled around the weapon.

Responding snarls erupted from the pack, bodies repositioning at the ready for an assault.

Derek shifted back from his full wolf form to his in-between state, to which the boy visibly recoiled, a low growl resonating from the kid’s throat in warning. His uneven breaths were audible and intermingled with that of the pack. The alpha stepped forward, watching as the blond matched by taking a step back and releasing yet another feral hiss; Derek addressed the child, “You’re on Hale territory, and I don’t take kindly to trespassers. Who are you and what is your business here?” he growled, flashing scarlet eyes threateningly. 

The kid’s presence was strangely alluring in a way Derek could not fully comprehend. And as disarming as the boy looked, there was something to him, an aura of danger, of chaos and decay…the werewolf could not place it. Now that he was near, he could feel immense power pulsing inside the small body, and he did not like the implications.

Luminous verdant eyes gazed back, appraising the man. “Anglais…?” ( _English…?_ ) The boy whispered quietly to himself, looking around again at the surrounding Lycans. “Ils n’ont pas l’air d'être Akumatisés…” ( _They don’t look like they’re Akumatized_ …) he continued under his breath, considering the circumstances.

Jackson’s face morphed in recognition of the language, glancing at Derek curiously. French. The boy was speaking in French. Derek was just about to respond in kind when the boy spoke again, asking, in perfect English, “Where…where is this place?”

A scowl descended on the alpha’s face. “You’re in no position to be asking questions. And I’m the one who needs answers, right now.” Derek was yet unsettled by the way those emerald eyes reflected even the smallest hints of light. There was no space for pleasantries. The supernatural shapeshifter before them was a product of potent magic, summoned at the Nemeton no less, and he would be damned if he were to let a potential threat beguile them. 

The blond cocked his head with a scoff. “I don’t need to tell you anything,” he rebuked. The bravado of confidence, however, was betrayed by the way his knees and hands shook, the scent of adrenalin and anxiety was still pungent and telling.

“ _Oh,_ the cat-boy has sass,” Erica blurted, lips stretched over sharp canines in a cheeky smirk.

The younger male’s face colored at the comment, head whipping around to scrutinize them once more. “What even _are_ you guys?” came the question, his voice breaking into a higher pitch. His body language was telling: his form taut, strung so tightly in fear like a cornered animal, agitated, a hairsbreadth away from retaliating.

Which is why when Jackson took a step forward, _just_ too close, mouth opening in what would have likely been a derisive comment, the kid snapped.

The movement was so fast even Derek had trouble keeping his eyes on him. The boy pivoted on his heel and twisted, hand flicking up while his staff extended and jabbed the older teen in the gut, thrusting his arm forward at the moment of impact to send Jackson hurling backward.

It was mere seconds before the pack descended on the young teen. Despite this, the cat shapeshifter quickly displayed a combat ability that not only spoke of experience with being outnumbered, but of a prowess wholly unexpected from someone so small.

Silver metal gleamed in the light of the full moon as the staff was expertly twirled around him, delivering swift offensive blows and parrying responding attacks. The fact that the boy was delivering non-lethal strikes was not lost on them. He progressed quickly, each move serving to disable as well as maintain a distance from the werewolves. 

The betas were skilled themselves, though, each working in tandem with one another in ways they’d previously practiced, which served them well against the surprisingly deft fighter. Having the rapid healing factor and durability of werewolves played a part as well. But the young male was quick to regain distance when he was being cornered.

Still, as the fight prolonged, the boy’s movements gradually dropped in velocity, becoming sloppier, more frantic, and taking blows more frequently than originally. 

The blond ducked under a sharp-clawed swipe from Isaac, grabbing hold of his arm and using the teen’s own momentum to flip him over his back, but was unable to pivot in time to defend against one of Erica’s kicks to his side, eliciting a short yelp. He promptly leaped vertically to avoid a second blow, flipping mid-air to land directly on Scott’s shoulders and pitched backward, kicking his feet forward and sending the tanned male careening forward into Boyd, twisting at the last minute to land in a crouch. 

Derek, who had been closely watching the exchange from the periphery, decided it was time to intervene. He entered rapidly in between the present chaos and seized the first opening – ripping away the staff from the outstretched arm and reaching around the boy’s shoulders while his back was turned. His large hand closed around the child’s throat and yanked, effectively slamming the kid into the ground.

A sharp, strangled cry ended in a wheeze, thin fingers clawing at the hand compressing his trachea. The pack held back the moment their alpha intervened but convened nearby just in case. Derek’s critical gaze raked the form beneath him, feeling the way the smaller body beneath him quaked in exertion and fright. Part of him, the human part—the rational part—reeled at the thought of hurting, or even killing, a child; put gently, it was repulsive. 

But a damaged part of him, a small, dark crevasse deep within him that had been jaded from his life of violence, grief, and loss, goaded him to eliminate the potential threat regardless.

Sea-green eyes stared back at him, watering at the corners and squinting against the effort to bring oxygen into his lungs. His face was too young, round and innocent, which warred viciously with the dangerous aura he sensed pulsing beneath the child’s skin.

Crashing sounds drew everyone’s attention as Stiles burst through the brush and skidded to a stop, hair sticking up in all directions and looking in a general disarray. He was sweat-soaked and panting heavily as his amber eyes took in the situation, seeing the pack, then Derek, before finally settling on the person pinned under Derek’s hand. Seconds trickled by, processing, before Stiles’ eyes widened considerably in recognition, alarm soon twisting his features as he suddenly lunged forward toward the alpha.

The next few moments happened in a blur.

Derek hadn’t even managed to open his mouth to rebuke Stiles when there was a quick shift in the body beneath him. The boy had somehow tucked his legs up against his chest, planting his heels against Derek’s abdomen in one swift motion, then kicked out, sending the older man flying backwards.

Scott, Erica, Isaac, Boyd, and Jackson collectively reacted, moving to once again attack when Stiles practically threw himself between the pack and the cat shapeshifter, screaming, “ _Stop!_ ” at the top of his lungs. “Don’t hurt him!”

Violent coughing filled the momentary silence following the outburst, the blond boy having turned onto his side, both hands cupping around his abused throat as he desperately attempted to bring oxygen into his body.

Derek was back in seconds, looking like a storm. “What the fuck are you doing, Stiles?! Get away from that thing!” he roared, refusing to admit to the thrill of fear that spiked at seeing the Spark near their enemy and channeling the sensation into a more familiar emotion: anger.

Stiles was gulping in lungfuls of air, arms held out to appease his counterparts. “He’s—Don’t hurt him!”

“He _attacked_ us!” Jackson interjected angrily.

“…We did hunt him down…” came the quiet mutter from Isaac, who shrunk in on himself at the leer the jock turned on him.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek ground out, reaching toward the teen with every intention of yanking the sixteen-year-old out of the way.

Until amber eyes flashed bright in warning, causing the alpha pause. Stiles was _threatening_ him. The air around him briefly glistened with magic. “He’s not our enemy,” the teen gasped, glaring at the Lycan with a stubbornness only Stiles could manage.

At that, Scott shifted back into a human and drew his best friend’s attention, asking, “How do you know? I thought you sensed something dangerous.” The confusion was understandable, given the circumstances. Stiles aggressively drew a hand down his face, exasperated.

“Yes, I _did_ ,” he clarified, “Until I actually saw _who_ we’re dealing with.”

“You’re saying you _know_ him?” Scott inquired, looking between his friend and the boy still wheezing beside him.

“ _Of_ him. I know of him, I don’t actually know him personally,” Stiles explained, moving to check on the younger male once he established the pack would not attack. By then, the Lycans had shifted back into their human forms, which visibly helped to ease at least _some_ of the collective tension. The kid seemed exhausted, one bright green eye peeking up at Stiles, wary and bewildered. “Are you okay, Chat Noir?” he asked, earning a shocked expression from the blond.

The teen’s mouth opened to reply when a high-pitched chirping sound resounded from the ring on his right hand. A look of horror descended on his face, a breathy, “No, not now…” escaping his lips.

Derek’s form loomed over Stiles and the kid, scarlet glare in full strength. “Explain. _Now_ ,” he demanded, barely managing to restrain his anger.

The flippant response of, “He’s a superhero,” raised some eyebrows and nearly crumbled Derek’s ability to not pummel the Stilinski teen. It was only the subsequent elucidation that quelled the anger inside the werewolf. “He goes by Chat Noir and works alongside another heroine who goes by Ladybug. Normally they’re based in Paris, France…” 

Jackson’s jeering remarks were staved off by Boyd’s heavy hand settling on his shoulder with a choice look.

“Magic is at the core of it and both are essentially two sides of a coin,” he continued, gesticulating with his hands as he spoke, “Chat Noir represents destruction and misfortune, while Ladybug represents creation and good fortune. There isn’t much more information on the two that I could find…literature on them is pretty rare despite the two appearing throughout history…” Golden honey eyes quickly assessed the blond next to him, wondering at his youthfulness. “But I do know that the ring on his finger is called a Miraculous, and that it affords him the magical suit he’s currently wearing.”

Stiles then fully turned his attention back to the young hero and smiled gently, hoping to alleviate some of the blatant anxiety permeating his existence, adding, “And no, we don’t want to take the Miraculous from you, nor are we Akumatized.”

Derek’s visage remained aggravated as he processed the information Stiles had supplied. He would certainly be asking for more – ignorance to any degree was virtually begging for trouble – but the overview managed to check some boxes. The title of “superhero” was far too ridiculous for Derek to ever entertain, much less utilize, but considering Stiles’ personality, the firm declaration of such a designation lent to the conclusion that this “ _Chat Noir_ ” was – at the very least – not a threat. His appearance being centered in magic, and the nature of his power being that of destruction and misfortune, validated the uncanny aura around the boy.

The quick glance that Stiles shot his way settled something in him. If nothing else, Derek knew he could trust Stiles’ knowledge and intuition. At this, he relaxed, if only marginally.

Chat looked between Stiles and the werewolves, appraising them as he slowly, gingerly moved to sit upright, yet uncertain about the whole situation. His breathing pattern was still jagged and, at this point, rather concerning. The ring let out another round of squealing beeps.

“Well, now I feel like a huge jerk for attacking him,” Scott said softly, squatting down onto the balls of his feet next to Chat and offering his hand. “I’m sorry about all that. We kind of freaked out after you went after Jackson.”

“He probably deserved it, anyways,” Erica added, merely chuckling when Jackson hurled choice curses her way.

After a moment’s pause, Chat accepted the proffered hand and, with his and Stiles’ help, managed to stand on shaky legs. “What are you guys…?” came the scratchy query. His voice was soft—partially from the abuse, partially from a strange meekness that had descended on the boy.

“Shapeshifters, Lycans, werewolves,” Stiles supplied, smiling broadly in hopes to disarm the blond. “Take your pick on terms. Essentially, we’re supernatural beings. Well, _they_ are, not me. I’m human, technically speaking. We can give you all the details, if you want, but…” He tapered off, watching the way the black cat ears flattened at yet another set of beeps from Chat’s ring, his long tail curling around his legs.

It was abruptly clear that the boy was no longer apprehensive of them, not only so, in any case – and Stiles nearly slapped himself when he realized that Chat Noir was concerned, morose really, because one thing he remembered from his research into the heroes of Paris is that the Miraculous had some sort of time limit, and his identity was at stake.

He raked his brain, hoping to come up with a solution. It came to him a moment later.

“Glamour!” he practically screamed, startling nearly everyone gathered, Chat included. His ADHD brain slammed the brakes before reversing to explain. “I can cast a glamour spell. To keep your identity hidden… If you – if you want…”

For just a moment, Chat looked up at him with an expression that wasn’t in some way related to pain and worry, ears perking up at the suggestion and something like gratefulness playing at the edges of his eyes.

But that moment passed, and an embittered countenance warped his youthful features. “I…,” he started, biting his lip in thought. “Thank you, but – I can’t ask you to do that. And there’s really no point…” At his own words, the teen seemed to wither into himself, arms wrapping around himself in a pitiful attempt at self-soothing.

Isaac stepped forward, peeking around Scott’s shoulder to look at Chat, surprisingly forthright for someone so habitually timid. “We won’t tell anyone…” he assured gently, nervous smile playing at his lips and hands awkwardly tugging at the edges of his shirt.

“We’re _werewolves_ ,” Erica supplied cheerfully, making a small gesture at the surrounding pack. “It’s not exactly public information. So, your secret is safe with us.”

Hesitance. The following minutes were met with quiet hesitance broken only by yet another round of high-pitched chirps. Chat Noir looked like his mind and body were warring with one another. No one had mentioned it, but physically, the young hero was not looking the best, and that was saying something considering how little of his actual flesh was exposed. His hair looked damp, shivers periodically racking down his spine, and labored breathing which had taken on a hint of wheezing.

With seconds left for the transformation, Chat wanted some semblance of control. This was all just so…so _wrong_ … He was breaking the promise he made to keep his identity a secret. He was breaking the trust Ladybug and Master Fu had placed in him. And the thought _hurt_. It hurt in a way that was so similar to the corporeal pain coursing his body and yet so _different_. Loathing washed over him, an antipathy wholly self-directed.

He wasn’t a hero. 

He didn’t _deserve_ to be one.

…

…He wanted to cry.

Instead, he pressed his chin against his chest, watered gaze fixated on his boots before muttering a, “Claws in”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~ ;3
> 
> Someone really needs to hug the sunshine child. And care for him with love. And feed him! Adoption anyone?  
> *Marinette breaks the door down* "I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE!!"  
> ~  
> Stay tuned to see what happens! :D  
> And let me know how you liked it!! (Yes, that's me unabashedly asking for comments, shoot me) O___o  
> ...  
> Also, I depended entirely on google translate for the French that Adrien spoke. I speak English and Spanish (attempting to learn Japanese but that's slow going)...not French, soooo...google translate will make a reappearance if at some point French is used again; apologies to any native speakers if it's off!


	4. Adrien

A flash of green light startled the surrounding adolescents, and in the place of Chat Noir stood a boy, clearly a few years younger than the teenagers of Derek’s pack, clothed in pajamas that clung to his skin in dampness. Not seconds after did the blond boy collapse, nearly smashing his skull into the ground had Scott not grabbed him beforehand. He was out cold, body completely pliant as the young werewolf carefully repositioned him in his arms while kneeling and settled the kid against his chest and shoulder. 

The sight itself was unsettling, because not only had the cat ears and tail remained, but a corpus of abrasions and bruises were abruptly visible, littering his—now exposed—flesh. Remorse swathed the present company, ostensibly with concerns of their own contribution, but the yellow-green tinge of some of the bruises spoke of older injuries.

The appearance of a tiny cat-like creature materializing from the ring on Chat’s finger was more than startling. “Kid? _KIT!_ ” the black feline yelled, descrying the blond and completely disregarding the present company in favor of assessing the young teen’s condition.

Black veins jolted up Scotts arms when his hands touched the blonde’s clammy skin, drawing a wince from the male. He tore his gaze away from the boy and cat-creature to look up at Stiles and Derek, alarm and discomfort swimming in his chocolate eyes. “He’s in serious pain,” he ground out, sweat breaking out on his forehead.

Erica was next to the pair in a second, hand closing around Chat’s forearm and drawing in some of the pain herself, shock marring her pretty face. “That’s…This is too much to just be scrapes and bruises,” she huffed in shock, eyes raking his petite body, “Feels like…like he might have some fractured bones…”

A tiny growl was heard, drawing attention to the black feline now hovering close to the blonde’s chest. “Not like any of you seemed to care initially…” it remarked darkly, chartreuse gaze casting around the pack. An aura of danger emanated from the small creature, putting them on edge. 

A look of warning was directed at Derek, who had reacted to the appearance of the cat with bright red eyes and sharpened claws – his body tense, at the ready. “You would be wise to ignore your primary urge,” came the dark counsel, decay and contamination palpable in the utterance, a promise in those lethal eyes. The Spark’s hand snapped out and seized Derek’s forearm, squeezing to still the alpha’s protective instincts.

Ethereal eyes settled on Stiles, recognition altering his countenance. “Been a while since I’ve encountered a Spark,” he continued, looking marginally satisfied with the teen despite the air of ire surrounding the creature.

Stiles looked between the tiny feline and the boy, trying to put the details together. “I can’t say I share the pleasure of having met you before,” Stiles replied, slowly. He was reasonably wary, if the near excessive amount magic pouring off its tiny body was anything to go by, but something about the creature settled him, a sense that the cat’s intent was to protect the boy and not necessarily outright harm the pack. “I’m Stiles. It’s nice to meet you…”

“…A touch more manners than your pet Fido over there,” came the reply, resolutely ignoring the offended growl emerging from the alpha. “The name’s Plagg. Kwami of destruction and misfortune, and, you could say, the source of the kid’s powers.” 

Stiles held out a finger to shake Plagg’s paw. It was apparent the creature was not unfamiliar with werewolves, and Stiles had the distinct feeling that, however compact and arguably _cute_ Plagg looked, this being was _ancient_. 

“From the state of things and your magical signature,” Plagg resumed after a moment, “it doesn’t seem like you were the one to summon us.” A shake of the teen’s head was enough to confirm the kwami’s suspicions. “Now, pleasantries aside,” his tone dropped critically, “my kit needs some medical attention…preferably away from the public eye…” Plagg looked back at the boy in Scotts arms, concern creasing his tiny features. “I can’t say I’m grateful to you for relieving him of some pain considering you all exacerbated and contributed to it, but I can overlook ignorance and misunderstandings if you help him.”

“What happened to him?” Isaac interjected, fixated on the injuries littering the young teen’s exposed flesh, looking haunted.

Plagg’s lime-green gaze considered the teen wolf. “Aside from the aftereffects of the summoning spell, let’s just say that the sperm donor who helped conceive him deserves a front row seat in hell,” he spat with such venom it was palpable. “And I’d be delighted to send him on his way…”

Shock slowly weighed on the surrounding faces, discomforted. Because now certain details started falling into place. 

This revelation baffled Stiles especially. 

He’d done much research into supernatural occurrences, even globally, to not only satiate his own curiosity, but also buffer the paranormal disasters so prone to Beacon Hills. His reconnoiter had unearthed a considerable amount of information, including the sudden occurrence of preternatural events and the emergence of “ _superheroes”_ in Paris about a year ago. There was much skepticism regarding the whole of it, particularly in other countries; most thought it was more a reality TV show with fake elements to make it interesting and being spouted as “news”. Stiles couldn’t blame the skeptics, it all seemed too fantastical to bare any shred of truth…but he _knew_ better.

The events in Paris led Stiles to delve deeper into his research, examining old literature, history, and lore that inevitably steered him to discover the _Miraculous_. Information was scant, and much had to be translated from Mandarin, but various historical sources described or even depicted figures that resembled Chat Noir and Ladybug throughout the centuries, all with consistent allusions to destruction and creation, respectively. The ring and earrings associated with the two were another regularity he came across; it lent substance to the validity of the Miraculous heroes.

The brunette scrutinized Chat once more; he looked so _young_ …

What hadn’t surfaced…what _hadn’t_ come up in his research of the recent Miraculous bearers – the articles, Ladyblog, videos, and news coverage – in none of the reportage had he noticed even an _inkling_ of Chat Noir being a victim of abuse.

The idea was sickening.

Instead, public evidence almost seemed to speak of the opposite. Chat Noir notably had a rather playful and mischievous demeanor, far more lighthearted than his partner, Ladybug, who presented the more serious and responsible conduct of the two. For all anyone knew, Chat Noir was as carefree and silly as the media showed. However, the video coverage often only caught the action at a distance and the interactions from the heroes with the public were generally limited and fleeting.

The darkness and pain of abuse so effectively hidden behind the boy’s bright green eyes and playful banter was _heart wrenching_.

Stiles ultimately turned to face Derek. Noticing this, the pack watched the silent exchange with ranging expressions.

Those honey eyes held a maelstrom of sentiments; a prickling in the back of Derek’s head, whispering to him through tendrils of enchantment, expressed much. At the forefront, Stiles was distressed – though not self-directed – and yet remarkably calm, unbothered by the presence of a creature whose aura tasted like ash and the young boy it was tethered to. Diametrically opposed to his own stance on the matter, the Spark’s determination was overbearing as much as it was unambiguous that a decision had been made. The older male felt a headache brewing as he pinched the bridge of his nose. 

Despite the very _real_ danger—and Derek was not pleased in the _slightest_ —it would behoove them to have this Chat Noir and the cat-kwami- _thing_ on their side, if the destructive power rippling within their bodies was any indication. 

His gaze trailed back to Chat laying limp as a doll in Scott’s arms. He looked tiny against the beta’s toned physique, pale skin smeared with dirt and blood and bruise faintly glowing in the dappled moonlight. Golden hair swooped and curled as if windblown, dusting across his closed eyes, brushing against a gently curved nose and cheeks still clinging to baby fat. 

There was something… _different_ about him outside of the suit. Distinct in a way, but also strange; Derek could not place the sensation. He felt… _bright_ , like a stream of sunlight piercing the eye of a storm. And there was a gentleness that calmed the aura enveloping him, divergent from the chaotic energy that lingered.

Raspy, shallow breaths shuttered beneath black and blue bruises visible through the damp white shirt the kid wore.

As a consequence, a seed of compassion took root, entrenched deep within him; it was _not_ something Derek planned to even _touch_ with a ten-foot pole. Irritation was far more comfortable a sentiment to entertain.

“ _Fine_ ,” he said at length, not a sliver of energy wasted in hiding his displeasure. “But I want answers from you,” he pointed at Plagg, leering at the smirk that consumed the feline, “and that ten-year-old when he wakes up.”

“He’s fourteen,” Plagg clarified.

Derek bristled irritably—familiar with this emotion and indulging in it—opening his mouth to deliver a scathing rebuttal when Stiles deliberately cut him off.

“What’s his name?” Stiles asked loudly, shooting a warning look at the alpha that only earned him a snarl in return.

Plagg turned once again to the boy as Scott gently threaded his arms beneath his knees and shoulders, standing with his charge. 

“Adrien,” Plagg replied after a moment, watching the near serene face of his chosen now that the pain had been temporarily drained from his body and quirking a smile when a soft purr started rumbling in the kid’s chest.

The soft sound drew the attention of the shapeshifters around him, surprise ringing between them which soon softened with amusement and endearment. 

“That,” Erica said with a wide smile, gesturing at the boy purring in Scott’s arms, “is _adorable_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, initially, this was going to be a monstrous chapter, nearing 5k words...somehow I was able to break it up. *please don't be mad!*  
> Considering I've not established a standard length for the chapters (and I don't think I will because it's restrictive and stressful), I figured I'd release this first while I edit the remaining portion (now chapter 5) which is longer.
> 
> Apologies for the wait, I'm not that frequent of an updater (new word?), but I'm trying because this fic gets me in all the feels.
> 
> Next chapter should be up soon (not fully satisfied with it yet, needs editing, but will go up faster than this recent update)!
> 
> Let me know how you all like this so far! <3 Stay safe!


	5. Wake

Waking up was slow going. Because Adrien couldn’t remember feeling this woozy, this abnormally tired in a long time. Well, he _could_ – plenty of times actually – but that was an aside to the strange sensations still prickling through his veins. Stuffed like wool beneath his skin, prickling against his insides. His body felt aberrantly laden, as though gravity had doubled down on him, and a weight had settled, constricting the expanse of his lungs, confining the cavity of his chest.

He rolled in and out of awareness, working with great effort to open his eyes in the stints of consciousness only to see blurs of light and shadows melting together like paint on a canvas. But he was strangely comfortable, prone on something soft and warm, layered under the weight of more softness and cushion, like an embrace he’d longed for. And it was quiet, save the faint birdsongs, the wisps of wind caressing tree leaves, and the subtle noises of company. His brain was fluffed cotton between his ears and the yawning of the under drew him in again.

When he stirred once more, it was to a shuffling directly before him, playing phantoms against the soft light. Bleary eyes trekked up when a warm hand brushed across his brow and settled gently against his forehead briefly. Adrien couldn’t help but lean into the touch, a strange, soft rumble pattering in his chest, staring up at a blurry figure uncomprehendingly before the hand lightly raked his hair and vanished.

From then it was a matter of time. He dozed again for what felt like a time, before rounding back into a semi-conscious state. His thoughts were slowly picking themselves back into a coherent line of thinking, his right hand laboriously moving to press fingers into his eyes; the other arm felt strange, like something was attached to it.

Although he still felt sluggish and heavy, drugged almost, it was less than when he’d initially come to. The full body stretch he indulged in was equally relieving as it was suddenly painful – a soft squeak escaping him, followed by a low whine of discomfort. Several tender areas were making themselves known, and he almost regretted emerging from the fluffy, blissful sleep. _Almost._

Eyes finally focusing noted the foreign ceiling above him, painted wood planks running the length of the room and terminating at the crown molding of the supporting walls; the windows of the room allowed the daylight to filter in unencumbered by curtains, the vibrance of autumn trees swallowing the scene beyond them. He’d just gathered that he was laying down in what looked to be a bedroom when a familiar black shape flitted into his line of sight.

“…Plagg,” me managed quietly through the residual lethargy, feeling the puffiness sloughed away. A warmth flooded his chest at the sight of his kwami, smile curving his lips.

“Hey, kit,” he replied fondly. “Took quite a cat-nap there.”

Adrien managed to slowly sit up, mindful of the aches and pains awakening with him, the thick blanket that had been draped atop him sliding off and pooling at his lap. He stifled a yawn and rubbed a line down his face, hoping to rid himself of the last bits of grogginess that left him pacified. 

“Yeah, I—,” he abruptly came to a halt, finally registering the fact that he didn’t actually _know_ where he was. And based on the events he _did_ remember, his current situation was not something he expected would be a result.

If he wasn’t fully awake before, he certainly was now.

His eyes darted around the sparsely furnished room, the four windows dotting two of the walls, and the small bed he lay on. Bandages wrapped tightly around his torso and littered a few areas on his arms and—what felt like—his left hip and legs as well; an IV was hooked into the crook of his left arm. His face burned red when he looked down at his lap where the blanket had pooled, noting with growing horror that he was presently nude under the covers. 

A quick check under the thick blanket confirmed this, drawing a blush that continued down his neck, dusting his chest and the tips of his shoulders. 

“P-PLAGG!” he nearly shrieked, “what’s going on?!”

His kwami flitted down to float in front of his face, paws up to try a placate his chosen. “You’re okay, kit. We’re not in danger—you’re _safe_ ,” he supplied quickly, bitter at how rarely he was actually able to utter those words to his kitten. “How much do you remember?”

The door slammed open and Adrien startled badly, jerking back and yanking the IV stand down. He yelped in pain, feeling the sharp hurt in his ribs and the sting of the IV needle twisting in his arm, causing tears to prickle in the back of his eyes. 

“Shit!” came the expletive, footfalls racing over before the IV stand was corrected. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you! We heard—I thought…You screamed, and I panicked…”

Sea green eyes met amber ones.

“Yeah, maybe rethink the ‘barging in’ plan of action,” Plagg rattled off, displeased. The responding apology was a quick stream of words, followed with an awkward, humorless chuckle.

Adrien’s brain supplied the memory of the teen who had literally thrown himself between Chat Noir and the werewolves. His face warmed at the recollection, unsure how to process the emotions that came with it. 

Glancing at the entrance, a black-haired male – the werewolf with red eyes – leaned on the door frame, arms folded over his broad chest, flanked by one of the other werewolves he’d previously fought. He looked as imposing as he was the night before, eyes piercing—hazel now, instead of red—sharp jaw overshadowed by stubble and an air of authority permeating his presence; however, the expected scowl was nowhere to be found, in its place was a neutral expression, brows relaxed over his gaze.

“How are you feeling?” Stiles blurted, drawing his attention back.

He started to shrug when his ribs protested again, drawing his lips into a grimace. “…Okay, I guess.”

“He’s lying,” Plagg deadpanned, unimpressed by the responding “ _Hey_!” from his chosen.

“I can tell,” the larger werewolf sighed from the entrance, straightening and walking over to the bed beside Stiles. Adrien couldn’t help the anxiety that swelled in his breast when the man approached, the ferocity and wrath directed at him when they’d fought a fresh memory in his head. His heart rate ticked up as the werewolf neared, hands trembling as they gripped the fabric of the blanket draped over him; the raven-haired man drew a quick breath through his nose, brow furrowing marginally when he stood next to the bed, yet his expression remained otherwise neutral.

With great effort, Adrien remained in place though, releasing his death-grip on the sheets – because Plagg seemed entirely relaxed and he’d _told_ Adrien they were safe – managing to only flinch when a large hand reached for and took hold of his left wrist. His hands were patently shaking now. 

“Does he do that often?” the werewolf questioned the kwami as he gently removed the IV needle from his arm, retrieving a small bandage from the bedside table and applying it to the wound. His hazel eyes flicked over to watch Adrien as he finished, still holding onto his arm that looked absurdly small in his grip.

“Quite,” Plagg confirmed, once again ignoring the affronted look his kitten sent his way. “He’s not very good at communicating what he needs. And he downplays whenever he’s hurt.”

Whatever Adrien was about to respond with to Plagg’s commentary died in his throat when the raven-haired man slid his hand down the blonde’s arm, once more holding his wrist, fingers enclosing around it before black streaks – like veins – trekked up his arms. The pains and aches that had resurfaced with his waking were effectively leeched from his body and he unwittingly relaxed into the sensation despite the shock of it all. The feeling of it drew a sigh of relief from him that inadvertently tapered off into what was very distinctly a purr.

He once again felt the burn of embarrassment prickle his skin, his right hand coming around to clap over his mouth; the purr stuttered to a stop. Besides a smile from Stiles and a snicker from Plagg, no one commented on the sound. The werewolf released his wrist.

The brunette plopped down at the foot of the bed and gestured to the man. “This Sourwolf here is Derek,” he introduced brightly, hands fluttering. “He’s the pack alpha. And the guy hiding by the doorway is Isaac.”

Isaac raised his hand with a small wave, meek smile gracing his face. Adrien returned the gesture.

“You’ll properly meet the rest of the pack soon…I think Lydia is still at the store with Allison…” he prattled on, checking his phone for confirmation of his last statement. “And I’m—”

“Stiles,” Adrien supplied, earning a grin from the other teen.

“Yup!” He popped the “p” at the end. “Plagg already told us your name…Adrien, huh?”

The blond suppressed a wince at the sound of his name, instead nodding, feeling marginally elated at the other’s personality and yet disturbed at hearing his real name from someone he had practically just met and who knew his secret identity. Still, Adrien could identify with the nervous energy that permeated the older teen, himself being prone to rambling occasionally and an amalgamation of anxiety induced ticks. The quirkiness soothed his stress somewhat and made him feel _slightly_ less awkward. “That’s me,” he acceded quietly.

Checking his wrist briefly and seeing nothing amiss, he glanced back up at Stiles and Derek, eyes lingering on the latter. “Um…what–what was that thing you did to me?”

Hazel eyes watched him for a moment, causing the younger male to squirm in discomfort before he replied, “I temporarily drew out your pain.”

Plagg settled atop his chosen’s legs with a flourish. “Werewolves are able to take away pain from someone if they so choose; direct contact with skin is necessary.” Adrien’s mouth parted in awe before pressing into a line, confusion marring his pretty face.

“I…wasn’t aware werewolves actually existed…”

“Surprise!” Plagg chirped, tossing out his tiny paws dramatically; it earned him a scowl from his chosen. “Alright, alright!” he amended, rolling his eyes so heavily Adrien thought they would stick. “I know you’ve never encountered other supernatural creatures before, kit, nor did I or the Guardian ever mention them existing—it was for a _reason_.”

Adrien sighed as he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, feeling drained already.

“On the bright side, all but the Spark here have no clue who _we_ are!” Derek scowled at this. “But…there are other things you should understand before we get into the _complicated_ stuff, kit,” Plagg said, throwing a meaningful look at the brunette.

Stiles nodded at the tiny cat and continued rather enthusiastically, leaning forward a bit as he explained some details, bringing Adrien up to date.

He recounted how they became aware of his summoning, mentioning his own affinity to magic, and the ensuing misunderstandings that had led to the violent encounter. After he’d collapsed, they brought him back to Derek’s house secluded on the preserve, and where the pack typically gathered. The local vet, Deaton, who was privy to the supernatural and magic—something called an “emissary”—had made a house call to help tend to Adrien’s injuries.

Aside from mentioning that he had two fractured ribs and extensive bruising throughout his body, the topic of his health was dropped, to his relief. There was a feeling though that the conversation was bound to arise again, if the assessing looks from the present company were anything to go by. This Deaton had likely divulged a lot more about the matter.

Adrien was less pleased to hear that he had been out for a little over a day and a half. Plagg assured him that the spell that summoned them to Beacon Hills had contributed to it, but that did not help to ease his nerves.

Discovering that he had been summoned to the _United States_ made him physically sick for a few moments as he processed the information. 

Because the distance…was just too much…

He should have suspected it, given the initial encounter with the pack and the distinct way they spoke English. He should have picked up on it a lot sooner. But it just hadn’t occurred to him at the time. 

And—he was so _far_ from Paris, from his Lady, and friends. Thousands of miles a yawning separation from everything he knew. A bilious cold settled into the pit of his stomach. She might…they might think he _abandoned_ them with the abruptness of his disappearance. And what of the akumas Hawkmoth was bound to release? How could he allow Ladybug to face them on her own? He was supposed to be her _protector_!

His chest felt tight.

It was very near the only thing that kept him going sometimes, the need to protect Ladybug. Because even if he _knew_ he wasn’t worthy of carrying the black cat Miraculous, he could at the very least _justify_ it by making sure that he would sustain all the damage and no harm would come to her. He would take _each and every_ hit for her if it would assure her safety and enable the heroine to work her magic unencumbered and able. 

It was his _job_.

And the reality that he was thousands of miles away from her and incapable of doing so struck him in his core, hollowing out a cavity where his heart used to be.

His pulse echoed like the sound of a piano in a desolate house.

Reeling for a moment, a depressive panic struck. His mounting failures left him withered and suffocated in much the same way to how his father’s steely blue gaze seized him just days ago, disdainfully peering at him down the length of his nose, spitting venom from his lips while his designer shoes stamped down on Adrien’s ribs in a blindingly painful torment that followed an especially brutal beating…

His vision blurred.

Because just as he had failed to live up to his father’s expectations he was now failing to live up to his duty as a protector of Paris and Ladybug…

. . .

 _Cold, ice-blue eyes spared an apathetic once over of him beneath furrowed brows._ “ _You’re a disappointment, Adrien”_.

…Of course, he was.

_The stench of alcohol billowed across his face, tears prickling his eyes while his arm was twisted painfully behind him, his shoulder tweaking in protest as he was shaken. “At this point, I don’t know why I even bother with you. You’re a waste of air!”_

…Why even try?

_Backpedaling at the sight of designer shoes thundering over; tripping over his own heals—the fall blessedly allowing him to inadvertently dodge the wine glass hurled at him—but being unable to avoid the swift kick that incidentally struck him in the fork of his legs, wrenching a shriek of pain from him as he folded into himself. “It should have been you! You worthless piece of_ — _”_

. . .

A sharp prickling from Plagg’s claws on his arm jolted him back to the present, the hissing black voices in his mind fizzling out in the wake of the surprise.

His chest _ached_ , lungs spasming beneath his ribs, wheezing gasps expelling from his throat. It was hard to focus, a darkness creeping in at the edges of his vision with each shuttered breath that failed to provide any oxygen, but the soothing murmur of his kwami’s voice compelled him to try.

And try he did, squeezing his eyes shut as he listened to the instructions, counting through the inhales and exhales, finding solace in the grounding presence of Plagg.

Time dragged, likely within the span of only minutes, before he was able to calm down from his panic enough to breathe properly. The kwami gazed at him intently, worry radiating off him in a way he never used to allow of himself. Adrien absently stroked the cat’s head with shaky hands, slowly coming back from an oblivion he was not unacquainted with, while his stomach relocated itself into its appropriate position.

The black cat shook his tiny head minutely. “Don’t fall, kit,” he whispered lowly, ears flat on his head. Some unidentifiable part of him writhed with hurt at that comment, recounting how many times Plagg had borne witness as Adrien dropped into the rabbit hole.

Adrien let out a shuddering breath, focusing on the gentle purr eradiating from the black cat, piecing together his mind and taping the fragments back into their places, wondering all the while how much longer his house of cards would stand.

A shifting of the bed drew his attention back to where Stiles was sitting, now fully situated—legs and all—on the foot of the bed watching him, brows pulled together, mouth set in a line. A box of tissues was placed between them and it took Adrien only a few more seconds before he touched his face, noticing, with mild shock, that he’d been crying.

His face warmed entirely, embarrassment prickling at his skin. “S-Sorry,” he mumbled, accepting the tissues, and wiping his face.

Stiles shrugged, chancing a glance at Derek who was leaning into a corner of the room, notably providing some space. “No worries,” Stiles assured gently. “…I get those, too.” A tentative smile, genuine and warm, curved the older teen’s face, and Adrien felt the corners of his mouth lift upward.

The distant sound of gravel and dirt crunching made itself known, the noise gradually becoming more distinct until it stopped just outside of the building; what sounded like car doors opening and closing closely followed. Derek straightened but Stiles didn’t react, instead fixated on the top of Adrien’s head…

A quick swipe through his hair and a glance at the base of his spine provoked a groan from the blond. “I still have these things, Plagg?” he whined piteously, still acclimating to the extra appendages and the strangeness of having sensation in them.

“That’s…well, it’s complicated,” Plagg proffered, floating up between the two boys on the bed.

“You mean, you don’t normally have cat ears and a tail?” Stiles interjected, drawing his knee up, wrapping his arms around his leg, and resting his chin onto his knee. His honey eyes twinkled mischievously.

Derek, who by then had crossed to the doorway, paused to listen, looking rather interested himself.

“ _No_. Well, not _real_ ones at least,” Adrien tried, absentmindedly stroking the black fur of the long tail as it curled in front of him, before looking up. “And certainly not when I’m not transformed…ah…” He blushed a bit, feeling odd speaking of his second identity so openly. “When…I’m Chat Noir the suit usually has them—not flesh ones—but this is the first time I’ve experienced…this.” He shook the black tail clutched in his hand for emphasis.

The raven-haired werewolf merely quirked a brow at the response, juxtaposed to the delighted interest that morphed Stiles’ expression.

Chatter was heard downstairs, and Derek sighed as if preparing himself. “Stiles,” he remarked, shooting a meaningful look at the younger male and gesturing to the hallway before he turned and left the room. Isaac had already disappeared from his station.

“Oh!” he said brightly, rotating to look at Adrien with a wide grin. “Looks like the girls are back, which means you get some new clothes, and then you can be properly introduced to the pack over dinner.”

The blond looked flabbergasted while Plagg zoomed around the sixteen-year-old’s face, shouting gleefully, “’Bout time! I’m _starving_! You got any cheese—preferably camembert—in this place?”

Stiles chuckled as he stood from the bed. “I’m sure we have about every type of cheese in this house. Allison and Isaac have been on a cooking kick and the Sourwolf’s _loaded_ ,” he grinned roguishly, strolling over to the door. 

“Hell yes!” cried Plagg, flitting back toward Adrien and rolling happily into the curve of his neck.

“You feel up to that?” the brunette asked, pausing at the doorway. “We can wait if you’re still tired…or overwhelmed.” 

The sincerity was so palpable in his words that Adrien paused in shock, floundering to get his tongue to work in his mouth as he blurted, “Me up! I’m—yes! I _mean_ , I…I’m okay! I can do it.” A visceral memory of Marinette warmed his cheeks, and he felt a kinship of sorts with how she struggled with her lexes.

Stiles’ snort of laughter at his verbal gaffe lacked any malice. “Great! We’ll send up some clothes and you can meet us downstairs afterward.” He was just about to leave when he whirled back around, pointing to a door on the wall to the left of the bed and added, as an afterthought, “By the way, that’s a bathroom if you need.” Adrien nodded mutely as the other waved and exited the room, closing the door.

“What have we gotten ourselves into…?” Adrien sighed some moments later, gingerly laying back down on the bed and tugging the blanket over his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised!  
> Not going to lie, I'm not fully satisfied with this chapter. It was a little bit hard to write, and transitions in stories can be a drag, but here it is!
> 
> That being said, don't be surprised if you ever re-read to find that it's been edited (I'm notorious for editing my stories as time goes on), particularly if I come across grammatical errors or sentences that don't make sense.
> 
> I've not yet started on the next chapter, trying to formulate the next steps to move the plot line without getting lost in the sauce! The next update may take some time!
> 
> I hope you all like it! :3
> 
> PS: Anyone know when the next season of Miraculous is supposed to air in the US?
> 
> P.P.S. 6/3/20: I've made some edits to this chapter.


	6. Partner

A soft knock roused Adrien from his dozing. The blond clearly hadn’t meant to, but the softness and warmth of the bed had lulled him into a light sleep before he was even aware. The kwami had deliberately not bothered to wake him; with the rapid succession of events that had taken place, Adrien was more than tired, and it showed. If allowed, it was likely he would sleep far longer. As it was, he sat up groggily, rubbing his eyes when the door opened wide.

Plagg watched the scene play out as he floated over to the entrance.

“Malia!” came the frustrated remark from one of the three girls standing in the doorway. “He didn’t say we could come in,” the brunette one exclaimed, attempting to spare a hand to stop the girl who’d opened the door. She was unsuccessful, bogged down with some obscene amount of shopping bags split between herself and the strawberry blonde next to her.

The teen at the door, Malia presumably, shrugged as she sauntered into the room, making a direct beeline right up to Adrien. “We know he’s here, why wait?” she remarked dismissively, immediately leaning into his personal space then blatantly _sniffing_ him. 

Plagg likened himself a good judge of character; more often than not, he found the need to express his deductions aloud if it were to steer his kitten out of the line of danger—to the extent of his ability. _Some_ pieces of _trash_ had yet proven unavoidable…however, the cat kwami felt this particular situation permitted some semblance of sway on his part.

Plagg had already met the entirety of the pack members—upon request—to gauge what the pair were presently dealing with. As it stood, there was no immediate threat to Adrien’s wellbeing from any member within the pack, however, the boy was in for some _fascinating_ interactions with the lot. 

Malia, indeed, ranked as one of the more interesting pups; feral in a way that Plagg could almost appreciate and profoundly lacking in key social skills.

Adrien clutched the blanket around him, body rigid, attempting to lean away from the werecoyote, his face working through several levels of awkward discomfort before settling on something halfway between neutral and stressed. It was nearly _comical_.

Her hand then reached out, projected toward his head, ostensibly to touch his ears when one of the other teens cleared her throat.

“Remember our talk about _personal space_ , Malia?” The strawberry blonde walked fully into the room, heels clicking on the polished wood floors, dumping her bags nearby the entrance.

Malia groused, rolling her eyes with exaggeration, looking mildly agitated, but moved out from his immediate breathing area. His shoulders visibly dropped a few inches. 

Her eyes, however, roved about his form, nose scrunching against foul thoughts. “Damn. I heard you were black and blue, but this is something _else_ ,” she remarked, gesturing at the various bruises and bandages littering his body.

His ears flattened against his head, gaze casting downward at his hands self-consciously. The immediate sound of heals clicked, a resounding smack spawning a pained yelp reached him, drawing his gaze back up to see Malia rubbing the back of her head and glaring daggers at the shortest girl who bore a contemptuous look.

“Sorry about barging in,” the brunette quickly said as she too set down her bags, shooting Adrien an apologetic smile, dimples creasing her cheeks. “Um, I’m Allison Argent.” She extended out her hand as she approached. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Distracted, the blond accepted her hand—brows raised at the obviously French last name—opening his mouth to introduce himself when he was cut off by a surprised, “ _Adrien Agreste_?!” He flinched at the mention of his full name, wide eyes rounding on the shorter girl who had chastised Malia.

“Um…yes?” he replied, looking uncomfortable and unsure of what to do in this situation. It was one thing for them to know his first name and see his face, but no one had yet to make the association with his surname. There was no use denying it anyway. This girl evidently recognized him on the spot.

She shook her head, pinching the bridge of her nose before a long sigh escaped her. 

“What, you know him?” Malia asked, tone flat.

“Considering everyone’s lack of taste in fashion, I’m probably the only one who _would_. He’s a Parisian model,” the girl replied, looking at him with interest. 

“A model?” The question was barely that, the dull pitch reverberating while a piercing gaze ran its course over him.

“You know,” Allison interjected, tapping a finger against her lower lip as she also gave Adrien a once-over; he shivered at all the scrutiny despite himself, “I can see it. He is rather adorable.”

Adrien went red in the face, “…Thank you?”

“Oh,” an apologetic smile encapsulated her once more. “We didn’t mean to talk about you as if you weren’t here.”

He shrugged, “…It’s okay, I’m used to it.” That was true. Adrien was frequently a topic spoken of as though he himself was nothing more than a doll; pretty, delicate, educated but expected to remain quiet, obedient but not regarded as _important_. 

Her lips curved down at that.

The strawberry blonde brushed her hair from her shoulder, approaching and offering her own hand to shake. “I’m Lydia Martin,” she introduced, then, gesturing to her right, said, “And this is Malia Tate.”

Despite the awkwardness, he smiled back at the trio—then was suddenly aware of his tail flicking enthusiastically behind him and immediately yanked the offending limb under the blanket as discreetly as he could.

He didn’t think the action went unnoticed, regardless. 

“It’s nice to meet you…” he replied politely only to taper off, eyes abruptly spying Plagg rummaging through the bags Lydia had deposited by the door, watching with growing horror as the kwami carelessly tossed out random pieces before emerging with what looked to be a pair of boxers in his tiny paws.

“Plagg,” he said quietly, breathlessly, remembering several distinct facts he’d yet ignored and contemplating if he could Cataclysm himself to escape the sheer mortification of it all. “… _what_ are you doing?” His voice was all but a whisper at that point.

The kwami sighed dramatically, undaunted by the looks he was now receiving from the present company. “I can’t believe you all went to the store and didn’t bring back any cheese!” he groaned, having the audacity to shoot a glare toward Lydia as he floated up. “Also, I think you’ll need to cut a hole in the back of these, otherwise you’ll be _quite_ uncomfortable,” he added, waving the boxers in the air for all to see.

Adrien turned an alarming shade of red, suddenly choking on his own spit.

“Scott did mention the ears and tail…” Allison muttered, reaching out to take the garment as though Adrien’s last sliver of dignity wasn’t dangling from her fingertips.

“We’ll have him try on the clothes to measure where we need to amend it,” Lydia added, as she sifted through a few pairs of pants, also completely unaffected by his turmoil.

That they were all taking this matter in stride, with the aside realization that they had—in fact—purchased all that clothing for him, shouldn’t have embarrassed him as much as it did, considering his background as a model. However, the fact that he was _still_ in a state of complete undress beneath the covers and that a couple of girls he’d _just_ met were pondering the placement of an opening for his _tail_ for said clothing was simply too much. He wanted to crawl into a hole and rot there.

On noticing his plight, however, a measure of mischievousness that had been lacking recently descended on Plagg, bright eyes glinting as a wicked smirk cut across his face. The kid had been so wound up lately, depressed, and on guard—rightfully so—it was only natural to want to buffer that, to drum up a different set of emotions that would perhaps bring out some of his chosen’s beloved silliness once more. He _was_ still just a kid, and in Plagg’s book, a mere baby.

And levity was Plagg’s therapy of choice.

He dove, snatching the boxers from Allison’s hands and chucked them at his chosen’s face, calling out, “Hey, kit! Put these on so we can make _accommodations_!” and cackling at the horrified look the boy presented.

This horror quickly collapsed into an embarrassment-fueled anger that shifted his human pupils into slits. 

_Oh_. That wasn’t good.

Heatedly, Adrien snatched the boxers off his head, then shoved the garment under the blanket and yanked it on before curling his legs under him and _lunging_ at the kwami.

Plagg had _not_ expected that.

“ _You are so dead!_ ” he hissed, wholly losing his composure as he leapt from the bed and snatched the guffawing cat from the air, mortification and adrenalin lessening the pain that reemerged from his injuries as he landed clear across the room and shook the kwami in his grasp.

“You—can’t—kill—me—I’m—too—awesome!” Plagg screeched back as the boy shook him, a boiling blush so heavy it ran down his neck and touched the tips of his shoulders.

A low growl drew the pair into abrupt stillness, wheezing breaths the only break in the sudden silence.

Adrien and Plagg looked up at the hulking mass of Derek towering over the two, and the man did _not_ look pleased.

“I take my eyes off you for a few _minutes_ and you manage to do something stupid.” His narrowed gaze was intense but there was no real danger in his demeanor, and somehow a goofy, apologetic smile managed to worm its way onto the blond boy’s face.

A small voice in the back of his mind screamed at him, wondering if he had a death wish. And yet another part of him _warmed_ at the similarity of Derek’s shallow crossness and his Lady’s half-hearted irritation at his antics.

Derek’s hand came down on the boy’s shoulder, gritting his teeth at the squeak of surprise and pain, leering down at the feel of thin bones prominent against his hand, and pulled at the pain for the second time that afternoon. The young teen notably relaxed in his grip, breaths once again taking on a hint of a purr on the back end.

Those large green eyes turned sweet and Derek felt a thrill of embarrassed anger.

“Here,” he barked, thrusting a small bottle into the boy’s hands, Plagg flying out of the way. “Take two of them every four hours. Deaton will be around later this evening for a follow up.” He then addressed the entire group. “The meeting is in _five_.”

With that, the man turned and stalked out of the room.

Curiously, Adrien turned the bottle over in his hands: ibuprofen. He supposed it would make sense, considering he couldn’t very well depend on the werewolves to drain his aches away all the time.

“Wow, real ray of sunshine that guy,” Plagg deadpanned, settling on his chosen’s shoulder, the whole clothing debacle momentarily forgotten.

Malia shrugged, flopping down on the bed disgracefully. “You get used to it,” she muttered, side-eyeing him.

“He’s really a big softie,” Lydia remarked, holding out a stack of clothes which he took with a soft, “Thank you”. “Sure, you wouldn’t want to be on his bad side, but he’s got a massive soft spot for…” she paused, eyeing him, “ _strays_.”

Adrien felt the ears on his head flatten, tail curling around a leg.

Turning on her side, Malia settled her elbow on the mattress and propped her head on her hand. “She means to say the big bad wolf likes you,” Malia supplied with a yawn.

Lydia smoothed her skirt and drew her shoulders back before addressing him. “The clothing _should_ fit,” Plagg’s snickering brought a fresh wave of embarrassment, wondering at how exactly they managed to figure out his size, “but in the case something doesn’t, or you don’t like it, let us know and we’ll get it exchanged for you.”

For a moment, he stood bewildered by her kindness, so unaccustomed to any consideration proffered to him that the instance felt like a dream. “Thank you for all this…” he flushed, truly stunned at the complete reversal of the encounter with the pack and the kindness that was so forthcoming.

The strawberry blonde smiled at him before patting him on the shoulder and beckoning the girl on the bed to follow. “You’re welcome! We’ll see you downstairs.” He nodded and watched as Malia shuffled out behind her, followed by Allison.

Just as Allison was leaving, she leaned in and quietly said, “I have some fabric scissors stashed downstairs. If it’s okay with you, I’ll snag them, and we can quickly amend the clothes before you sit down with everyone.”

Despite the discomfiture with regards to his tail, she had a point, and of the three, he felt the most comfortable with Allison on this particular matter. “That…that would be great,” he sighed, smiling at her.

Her face lit up, dimples emerging and eyes crinkling. “Okay! I’ll be right back!” She winked at him, slipping out of the room and drawing the door closed behind her.

* * *

Marinette pressed the tips of her fingers against her temples, willing the headache to quell in the wake of the meltdown she was sure to have momentarily. She sniffled, feeling the base of her eyes pool and her nose run just before yet another wave of tears streamed down her cheeks.

“It just—It makes no _sense_ ,” she moaned, raking her fingers through her hair and wreaking havoc on her pigtails. A few strands broke free and fluttered down against her jaw. 

Tikki hovered near her chosen, watching as the teen paced a circuit along the length of her room, large blue eyes worried over the situation as a whole.

“Where would he _go_?!” she whined, abruptly stopping to gaze imploringly at her kwami.

The ladybug kwami felt her heart fracture at the girl’s distress.

It had been two days. Marinette had startled awake, an echo of a scream that sounded so pained, so _frightened_ , shooting through her skull as if the person had been right next to her. Abruptly she’d sat up in bed, “ _Chat Noir”_ dribbling from her sleep exhausted lips as though her brain had concluded—without a doubt—that he was the very one who screamed.

Tikki had likewise roused from her sleep, exchanging confused looks with Marinette as she felt a break in balance, a distinct sensation of the lack of Plagg’s presence.

There was a potent hollow in Marinette’s chest, a coldness in her gut as she sat in the stillness and quiet of her room. Longing swathed her, loss a sharp pain beneath her ribs with the slow but steady emergence of a thought that, despite lacking any witness, established itself with such veracity there was no denying it: _something happened to Chat_.

She didn’t know _how_ she’d concluded that, but the sensations swirling inside of her were more than just residual impressions from a dream.

In retrospect, it was strange, because the more she considered it, the more it seemed as though this was not a novel experience. There had been a connection from the start, she’d been sure of it; however, she’d eventually attributed the experience to the nature of the miraculous charms bestowed on them.

Opposites.

Fortune and misfortune.

Creation and destruction.

Diametrically opposed and yet complementary. The two halves a necessary counterbalance. Drawn to one another eternally.

And yet…it was so much _more_ than just that. Without question, it was beyond just the nature of power bequeathed them. Something explicitly alluring between herself and the _real_ Chat, the boy _beneath_ the mask, was present.

It wasn’t something she’d ever wanted to admit to, considering her colossal crush on Adrien Agreste who, to his credit, also bore an aura that drew her in like a bug to a zapper. But that same pull was felt toward her partner, and as much as she wanted to deny it, there was nothing but truth in that sentiment.

Chat Noir had this…ethereal beauty to him. Enchanting. Curious. Selfless. Playful and bright. Sensual without meaning to be. Mischievous and innocent in a juxtaposition that only Chat was capable of achieving. 

But more so there was _another side_ to him, a person behind the bravado not often seen by others, observable in the quite moments, the interludes in their patrols and proceeding the fallout of an akuma attack. He was sweet, gentle as he often consoled victims of Hawkmoth’s greed, encouraging to anyone who held a sliver of doubt about themselves, kind as he patiently listened to the ups and downs of her week, and… _cute_ as he attempted to cheer her up with silly jokes and puns. The genuine love and loyalty that radiated from his character nearly set her still at times, wondering if it were even possible for a person to _be_ that way and exist in real life at the same time.

She would render herself a liar to presume her heart was not moved by those bright green eyes.

This draw…this _bond_ between the two of them was the palpable red flag that suggested something vastly wrong had befallen her partner. Wrung out as she was, quivering with foreboding, the aching void that had opened in her chest was nothing short of terrifying.

Her fears had only grown when he not only failed to show up for their scheduled patrol the following night—he’d always made a point to send her a message when he couldn’t make it—but she also could not manage to pinpoint his location within the _whole of Paris_. Tikki was equally perturbed, confessing that there was an unnatural tip in the scales of balance of power, and that it had only occurred in situations where she and Plagg had been separated by considerable distances. The Ladybug and Black Cat Miraculouses were never intended to be separated.

And then they were substantiated as she unwittingly succumbed to exhaustion, mind pulsing with images born of magic. The dreams were chaotic flashes of sounds, of emotion, and urgency. Glimpses into events that felt so real she would have wagered her life she’d underwent them firsthand.

_A woodland canopy pitching dizzily. Pain and cold and fear._

_Quickening through the forest; howling breaching the air. Bone deep panic settling._

_Scarlet, yellow eyes leering, sharp fangs and claws lashing out. Terror and breathlessness._

_And the horribly familiar blinking of the last bright green pawprint on what was undoubtedly Chat Noir’s miraculous. …Grief…_

This had only fueled the fourteen-year-old into a state of near panic upon waking.

“I’m not sure, Marinette,” Tikki lamented presently, to her chosen’s great displeasure. “I can’t…I can’t seem to feel Plagg anywhere in the city…”

The teen moaned, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes but failing to stave off the tears that broke through, and sat—more like collapsed—down, hugging her knees to her chest and ducking to cry into her arms.

The ladybug kwami felt nigh physical pain observing the state of her chosen, the girl so obviously distraught over her missing partner. Their connection had only strengthened in the past year they worked and fought together, their friendship likewise developing into something uniquely profound. Expected of the two, being the manifestations of creation and destruction they were, two halves of one whole. 

It only hurt more knowing that she needed to address the potential complications of the present issue… Because as she considered the situation, and the available information, Tikki had a sinking suspicion as to what may have happened. Something similar had transpired _before_. The notion of this likelihood was profoundly displeasing, because it had been _centuries_ since it happened; the horrific outcome of which was not something she was keen on remembering, much less standing idly by as history threatened to repeat itself.

This weighing on her heart, she floated down to hover in front of the girl’s face, the girl who was fruitlessly attempting to wipe her tears away, only for them to be replaced with a torrent of new ones.

“Marinette,” she cooed gently, extending a paw out to stroke the raven-haired girl’s arm. “I know this is hard, and I don’t want to upset you more, but…I may have an idea as to what could be happening…”

A wet sniffle, a weak sound of surprise emanating from her throat, before large bluebell eyes snapped up to meet sky blue ones. “W-What is it, Tikki?” she gasped, her face splotchy and red. The kwami moved to settle atop Marinette’s knees, the girl too emotionally worn to unwind her arms from around herself.

Tikki bit down on her paw, hesitant, looking pained. “I’m not yet sure if my suspicions are correct, but I’m also limited as to what I can tell you without Plagg around.” Mentally sifting through the information she was able to reveal presently, Tikki endeavored to collect her thoughts before proceeding with an explanation that would help Marinette understand.

The look of frustration on the teen’s face compelled her to continue.

She began tentatively, “There is more than just one type of magic in this world, Marinette.”

The noirette scrunched her brows. “What do you mean?”

“The Miraculous are quite notably one form of magic. However, there are more manifestations of magic in the world. For instance, magic can be used to alter one’s appearance, accelerate healing, manipulate matter, or even amplify existing magic. They can also imbue the user with enhanced attributes. It is similar in a way to the Miraculous, however, it is more limited in comparison as it tends to require a process and medium to channel the power.”

Marinette nodded, slowly drinking in this new information and wondering how this related to her missing kitty. 

“I can’t get into the details of it…If we do speak on the matter, it would be best to do so in the presence of both you and Chat Noir…” She paused briefly as she considered her prose. “What I can say is that although the Miraculous afford you and the other bearers a level of protection against diverse forms of magic, Chat Noir has the… _misfortune_ …of being susceptible to an ancient type of magic in particular.” 

Bluebell eyes widened at this, processing this revelation. “…So, what you’re telling me is that Chat’s disappearance…may have been caused by this ancient form of magic?”

The girl’s innate ability to make connections with limited knowledge made Tikki proud to have Marinette as her chosen. Those lovely, sharp blue eyes locked gazes with the kwami again, and Tikki nodded in affirmation. “He was likely _summoned_.”

Slowly, the noirette dropped her legs, allowing the ladybug to float up, and crossed them, hands cupping under her kwami to bring the little bug close to her face. “I get the feeling that something like this has happened before…to a previous Chat Noir…?”

Tikki’s mouth pressed into a fine line, and it was enough of a confirmation for Marinette. The tone of the conversation led her to believe that the previous occurrence had an…unfavorable outcome. The intimation was distressing.

A few minutes of quiet contemplation slipped by; Marinette then spared a hand to wipe at her face, attempting to remove the remnants of her fears, and looked at the red and black creature in her palm with renewed determination. “You’d only be telling me this because there may be something we can do about it…right?” A nod fueled her further, and she stood up, hand still cupped around her tiny friend, a look of scorching resolve molding her visage as that sweet face encompassed the fortitude of Ladybug. Whatever was going on, she would be there for her Kitty. She would not let him suffer this alone. “Okay, Tikki. What do we do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, I'm just going to leave this here.
> 
> Yet again, I'm not fully satisfied with this chapter, I feel that it is sort of underwhelming, which may hold the possibility of being edited down the line, but I figure I'll just post it and work from there. Needed to get through some transitions.../:
> 
> BUT! We have entered Marinette!! Whooo!! (poor child is shooketh) But then again, so is the sunshine child...got a whole load of angst going on!  
> I don't know about you all, but Malia's lack of social skills was something I wanted to maintain...it's just too delightful to leave out!  
> Next chapter will move the plot forward hopefully. I'm trying to balance a good story while not getting lost in the details. I don't want to hyperfocus on length and lose track of the plot line! (...has happened before)
> 
> Star sticker to the person that has noticed the yet-to-be-addressed issue so far (hint: time-frame). Will this be officially addressed? Yes; the explanation for this will be explored later and it will be...magical~! Haha! (really not that interesting)
> 
> Let me know what you all think! :D  
> Comments keep me going!!!  
> (I did this instead of working...and now I have to finish my work...*dies a little inside*)
> 
> Update: 9/27/2020 - The next chapter is in progress (work has been a lot lately), and is currently at 2,688 words. This chapter will go into some of the details surrounding the spell cast on Adrien and Plagg, so stay tuned! :D


	7. Pack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! 
> 
> This chapter will be dialogue heavy...and a rollercoaster of emotion for our sunshine child, but it's necessary for lore expansion.
> 
> Enjoy! :D

He just…couldn’t sit still, nerves crackling—which would have earned him some physical retribution had his father been present to see—but the nervousness, the _excitement_ roiling inside him had his tail lashing uncontrollably behind him, cat ears flicking between rigid alertness and lying flat against his head. His hands perfunctorily constricted and released the fabric of the black cotton joggers he was wearing, stuffed together between his thighs to keep them from shaking.

Adrien was presently sandwiched between Erica—who was in the not-so-subtle process of dragging him onto her lap with an arm curved around his shoulders—and Malia—who had taken it upon herself to sprawl down as close as humanly possible to the boy, arms crossed behind her head with a territorial visage. The two girls seemed to have zero issues with this arrangement: Malia merely relaxing into the cushions and propping her feet on the edge of the coffee table; Erica, likewise, sat comfortably back, idly trailing her nails in patterns along his arm.

Adrien felt a distinct conflict between the added _stress_ from the brazen proximity and the aching _comfort_ of human touch—something he was oft deprived of. A prickling in the back of his throat drew a sudden cough—he stifled the following one behind his fist.

Stiles had graciously introduced him to the whole of the team—officially, and thankfully without conflict—and had plowed through the information they had from the pack’s perspective when it came to their initial encounter, more to get everyone else on the same page. Plagg was situated on the table in front of him centered in the living room, surrounded by the crumbs of various cheeses he’d polished off within minutes of being served, and only spared Adrien a passing glance as the kid’s eyes cast around the room, clearly on edge for more reasons than the werewolf and were-coyote using him as a human pillow, yet inexplicably thrilled at the revelations he was having.

“So,” he began, leaning forward with bright, wide eyes—clearing his throat of the edged waver his nerves levied on the prose, “there are different kinds of supernatural creatures? Like witches…and _vampires_?” The uptick in his pitch at the end gave way to the beginnings of a trill, which he coughed through—the picture of confusion at the way his throat betrayed him.

Erica snorted, looking thoroughly amused as she relinquished her efforts to cuddle the teen and instead took to leaning her elbow on the armrest. “Sure, there are,” she piped up, drawing his gaze. “But there are more than just those, cat-boy. Our very own Jackson was a kanima before he became a werewolf.”

Jackson launched off the wall he’d been leaning on and bore down on the blonde, “You wanna talk shit, blondie?”

“She’s not ‘ _talking_ _shit’_ if it’s true,” Stiles quipped, blowing on his nails dramatically with a self-satisfied grin. Plagg burst into cackles and Scott shared a barefaced fist-bump with Stiles at the expense of the older teen. Lydia couldn’t hold back snort and Allison politely turned her head to snicker into her hand.

“What’s a “kanima’?” Adrien asked delightedly, somehow managing to derail the teasing.

Jackson snarled at his packmates, baring fangs and flashing eyes before he rounded on Adrien. The wide-eyed gaze he received caused him to falter, frown pulling his lips. Plagg snickered even more, well aware of how devastatingly disarming his chosen presented as when curious—kitten eyes a weapon he’d yet to be aware of enough to properly utilize. A warning sound from Derek had him skulking back to his previous corner.

Stiles perked up at the question, mouth opening to rattle off the wealth of knowledge the teen had on all things supernatural when—following a pointed look from Derek—Scott casually threw his arm around his friend’s shoulder and clapped his hand over the hyperactive boy’s mouth.

“Maybe save the history lesson for another time? Y’know, just you and him?” Scott tried, smiling guiltily at the sharp look his friend leveled him with.

“Thank God…” muttered Boyd from the other side of the room, well acquainted with Stiles’ long-winded explanations. Stiles yanked away from the hold and landed a well-placed punch to the werewolf’s shoulder—judging by Scott’s face, it wasn’t a pleasant experience.

Derek returned his attention to the blond, glancing at Plagg to imply his inclusion. “I’m more concerned about what brought you here. We need to know what we’re up against in order to stop it. What else do you know about it?”

Plagg’s mouth quirked up at the corners, because with the phrasing, it was evident Derek had no intensions of relinquishing Adrien and Plagg to the ones that summoned them. And judging by the light blush that dusted his cheeks, his kitten had picked up on that implication, too.

Lydia’s comment on Derek being a “softy” was spot on.

Adrien shrugged at his lack of knowledge. “I don’t really know anything. I went to bed and woke up here.”

“Wait, that’s strange. Isn’t there a nine-hour difference between Paris and Beacon Hills?” Allison asked from her perch next to Scott.

The blond thought about it before nodding. “Yes…but that actually doesn’t account for… Hold on. When—when exactly did we show up here?”

“Stiles sensed you around ten-thirty pm,” Derek supplied.

Adrien had his chin pinched between his thumb and bent forefinger. “It doesn’t make sense. Even if I went to sleep past four, it wouldn’t account for the three or so hours lost. Because it sure wasn’t past seven; my alarm was set for five.”

Plagg sighed and sat up on the table, choosing to ignore the reminder of Adrien’s terrible sleeping habits, and addressed the confusion. “It is accounted for when you consider the conditions necessary to summon beings such as you and me, and the time frame of deconstruction and reconstruction of our physical bodies.”

Adrien’s face drained of color. “…The _what_ of our bodies?”

“That’s…disturbing,” Scott muttered, mirroring the shock of the present company in response to Plagg’s statement.

Derek’s eyes were wide. “You’re saying that your bodies were essentially…undone?”

The cat shrugged noncommittally but replied, nevertheless. “Yes. The spell is a lengthy one to my knowledge, likely started earlier that afternoon. Near the time of completion, the magic will draw us out. Unfortunately, this is not a matter of teleportation, rather forcing us through another dimension, effectively necessitating a deconstruction of the physical matter into particles…only to reconstruct it at the desired location. It takes some _time_ , but the results are instantaneous upon completion,” he explained, as though everyone present wasn’t stunned into silence.

Stiles and Derek shared a look tinged with something akin to horror and disbelief.

“I’m sure you felt it, kitten,” Plagg continued, voice plain but compassion shining in his eyes. “I know you were hurt before, but that _bone-deep_ ache was not normal.” 

Adrien, for his part, simply stared at his hands, eyes wide in shock but knowing Plagg was not facetious about something like this. The implication with this was…grave. Because it meant that spacetime itself had been manipulated…that he and Plagg had been effectively sent _back_ in time. Had he not known any better, he would’ve assumed the Rabbit Miraculous had been at play.

“…Okay, um…” Stiles began, attempting to progress the discussion beyond the unsettling revelations. “I get—I get that the spell was designed to summon you and Adrien, but what I’m not understanding is why you both materialized at the Nemeton. Wouldn’t the spell have brought you both to the location of the caster?”

At this, Adrien’s gaze alighted on his kwami.

Plagg sighed. “Yes and no. The spell is complicated to say the least and very old; it’s likely the caster botched the point of arrival. That said, the spell will default and deposit the vessel to a location of prominent telluric currents nearest the caster. In this case, I suppose that’s your Nemeton.”

“You seem to know a great deal about the spell,” Lydia remarked, tilting her head as she continued, “I assume you’ve experienced this before…?” Plagg’s demeanor darkened as he nodded an affirmative. The unspoken insinuation of the outcome was abundantly clear to the present company.

“Do you know what this specific invocation entails?” Stiles asked, the pen he’d been using to organize the information they’d collected twirling around his fingers.

Cat eyes slid over to look at his charge again, assessing the inquisitiveness and uneasiness glimmering behind them. This discussion was no doubt entering into territory that would cause the boy great pain, but the necessity of this knowledge was an unfortunate reality at this point in time. His next words were directed toward his kitten.

“Kit, this…what I’m about to explain will be difficult for you to hear…” And it would be. What Plagg knew would unquestionably be grim for Adrien, even if the boy had no say nor fault in the situation.

His chosen’s body straightened rigidly, lips pressed into a line, tail curling around his middle. Following a moment of thought, a curt nod was the kwami’s tentative answer.

Plagg sighed again, choosing to stay a distance from the boy to better observe his emotional state as he delved into the issue at hand.

“To answer your question, Spark, I do know the ritual involved to some degree…which is also why I’m going to proffer a warning following my explanation.”

Looks were exchanged among the supernatural beings in the room, varying degrees of wariness evident on their faces. Plagg ignored them in favor of proceeding with his explication.

“The spell was formulated close to the founding of the druidic practice. It was designed to summon the power of destruction in a way that could be harnessed and manipulated, by using what knowledge they had at the time.

“During that period, the druids were seeking ways to manipulate the forces of nature, but were unaware of various details pertaining to the magic they were dabbling in. They knew nothing of how ‘destruction’ itself would manifest—not anticipating that I encompassed that force as a sentient being—and, more importantly, they were unaware of the existence of the Miraculous charms.”

Lydia leaned forward thoughtfully, asking, “Do you mean to say that you’ve always existed as the embodiment of ‘destruction’?”

Plagg shook his head at that. “Kwami like me are indeed old, however, we’ve not existed since the beginning of time, if that’s your question. I’m more of a… _spectral_ …manifestation of destruction, for lack of a better term.”

“’Spectral’…,” Stiles echoed quietly, now chewing on the edge of his pen as his mind raced with theories, before he removed the instrument and eyed Plagg with suspicion. “If you say you’re more akin to an apparition…does that mean kwami exist outside of our reality? …And that the Miraculous are physical tethers to the material world…?”

The black cat’s face morphed with a sharp smile. “ _Very_ close, Spark,” he praised. “Kwami sit between the material and immaterial dimensions. Although time and reality do affect us, they do so differently in comparison to you all. The Miraculous charms _indeed_ form a tether that allow us to channel our power into your world, but they are incomplete without a chosen bearer.”

Adrien straightened at this, clearing his throat suddenly, while Stiles nodded along, jotting some quick notes.

“Okay, so by a chosen bearer, that would mean Adrien in your case, right?” Allison asked, to which the cat nodded.

“…You’re withholding something,” Lydia stated more than asked, eyeing the kwami suspiciously. This drew a wicked smile from the black cat, white fangs glinting. “He’s more than just a Miraculous bearer…isn’t he?”

Plagg briefly turned his attention to Derek, remarking, “You’ve got some sharp pups here,” before his gaze flickered back to the banshee. “Yes. Adrien is the _physical_ manifestation of destruction.”

The statement brought pause.

Adrien looked bewildered. “Plagg…I’m just—I’m only _wearing_ the ring. It’s not like I am the embodiment of destruction or something like that…” Plagg only stared back, and Adrien felt a rising panic inside his chest. “…You’re kidding, right?” he begged weakly, only to continue to see the seriousness in his kwami’s eyes.

As the weight of the revelation settled heavily within him, another burning thought occurred to him. “And Ladybug? Is she…?”

“The physical manifestation of creation? Yes, she is.”

The blond slumped back into the couch, breath escaping him as he collided with the back cushions, knocking his shoulder into Malia who simply eyed the teen for a moment before adjusting her position to better accommodate his presence. After a minute or so of quiet reflection, Adrien’s eyes flickered back to his kwami, visage having yet to settle on something definitive, like water coursing down a riverbank, and nodded rigidly.

Plagg sighed before continuing. “In any case, despite lacking knowledge of kwami such as myself, the Miraculous charms, and the chosen bearers, the druids did succeed in summoning myself and my chosen at the time.”

Adrien sneezed into his hands. Erica eyed him dubiously before reaching over to snag a tissue from the coffee table and handing it to him.

“What did they do…?” Scott probed, looking wary of the answer.

The cat scowled rancorously at the teen wolf, causing the latter to shrink into himself. He didn’t see fit to grace the question with an answer. A trice of silence followed.

Hoping to divert the line of questioning, Allison ventured a comment. “I feel like they would’ve had to employ some extremely potent magic to summon you both…” To this, the kwami agreed.

Chartreus eyes zeroing in on his chosen, bracing for any indication of turmoil, Plagg uttered, “I’m sure you’ve heard the old axiom of cats having nine lives… I suppose Druids took this seriously and believed the number to have special meaning.” He sighed again, fully facing his kitten, looking pained. “…The spell requires a ritualistic sacrifice of nine supernatural beings to drive it’s power.”

The sound that emerged from Adrien’s throat was distinct among the collective reactions of shock in the room, like he’d choked on air. He stared back at Plagg, face bloodless, slack-jawed horror threatening to smother him. 

This…

This couldn’t be real.

His head began to shake against the idea, as if he could _will_ the revelation into inexistence if he just denied it. No wonder Plagg had warned him. He’d warned him, but Adrien never imagined it would be something like _this_.

Tears pooled then trailed down his cheeks; he shook his head more fervently as Plagg approached and Erica’s arm curved around him once more. His body curled into itself, palms pressing against his ears.

“No…” he whimpered quietly, nearly choking on the word, ice chilling his gut at the thought of…of _innocent_ people being _murdered_ to summon him.

“ _Listen to me, Kitten_ ,” Plagg growled centimeters from the boy’s face, drawing Adrien’s attention with purpose laced into his words. “You have _zero_ blame in all this.”

His chest was crumbling. _What kind of sick joke was this?_ “B-But—,”

“I _just_ said—and heaven forbid I repeat myself once more, Kit—this is _not_ your fault. There is nothing you did to cause this, nor is there anything you could have done to prevent this.”

At once there was a burning inside him. “Are you _kidding_ me?” Adrien fired back, launching to his feet. He didn’t hear the screeching of the furniture moving over the blood roaring in his ears. A wet, humorless chuckle crackled from his lips; his skin prickled with warmth. “You’re telling me that—that _nine_ people were _killed_ to summon us and it’s somehow unrelated to me?!”

Stiles had leapt to his feet, looking frantic, nerves simmering. Derek towered beside him, alarmed, but wary to step between the boy and kwami. Waves of power coiled off the two—a bright, crackling sort of energy that reeked of decay; the sudden displacement of the furniture was entirely unexpected. They weren’t sure what was going on, but if the way Adrien’s eyes were glowing faintly was anything to go by, the boy’s magic likely extended beyond the transformation.

The black cat snarled. “I didn’t say ‘ _unrelated’_ , I said you’re not _culpable_. Why do you insist on taking responsibility for things you have no fault in?!”

His breath rattled loudly in the back of his throat as the air escaped him, suddenly exhausted—both emotionally and physically. A distant part of him understood that—much like everything else in his life—he really didn’t have any say or control in this situation. That insight, however, did little to allay the guilt sloshing within him.

Regardless of what Plagg said.

And just as quickly as his anger spiked, it left him. The weight of an anvil settled on his heart. He futilely wiped at the tears on his cheeks, lips quivering, hiccupped breaths.

“You said,” he began quietly, voice strained and reedy like a rope had wound around his throat and _squeezed_ , “that I was the physical manifestation of destruction.” The room was silent. Plagg watched him with wide, sharp eyes. “…Does that not also make me the physical manifestation of…of misfortune as well…?”

Plagg cycled through a vast array of emotions in the span of a few seconds; his face finally settled neutrally. “Yes,” he agreed, a strange look in his gaze that Adrien couldn’t quite place.

“Does that…can I…” He worried at his bottom lip, finding it difficult to phrase the question.

But Plagg knew him better. 

“Yes,” the cat said plainly, “You _can_ offset the bad luck onto others.” The blond inhaled sharply—Plagg promptly resumed. “ _However_ , that has to be _intentional_. You are actually more likely to _draw in_ misfortune onto yourself than you are to spread it. Much like a magnet,” he clarified.

Adrien’s eyes shone brightly at this, looking at his kwami with the last dregs of hope in him. His tongue rebelled, stuck in his mouth, the tightness in his throat rendering him mute.

“Kitten,” he breathed gently, floating close enough to place his paws on the boy’s nose, “I _meant it_ when I said you have no fault in this. Nothing you could have done would have prevented the ones who summoned us from performing the ritual.” Watching the turmoil rampage across the teen’s face was agonizing for the ancient being, but as he purred gently to calm him, Adrien’s shoulders gradually dropped, his eyes no longer glowing with rage induced power. Surely the kid would yet be troubled over this whole ordeal—it may very well take a while and perhaps some sense talked into him before he would even _consider_ the notion it wasn’t somehow his fault—but for now, there was only so much self-control the boy could muster when a surfeit of weighty information was unceremoniously dumped on him.

“Kid, your powers _do_ allow to you offset misfortune on others, but _you don’t_.…your ability to draw it in and hold it is unique to you. You’ve always been the perfect chosen for the Black Cat Miraculous, because your benevolence, gentleness, and selflessness garner the greatest trust when wielding the devastating power of Destruction.”

Adrien couldn’t stop the fresh wave of tears that came. Something in him needed to hear that, needed the affirmation that he wasn’t a complete and utter failure. And hearing it from his kwami…it meant a lot. Because, for all that Plagg was, he was no liar nor was he a flatterer. The being of destruction had zero inclination to coddle and spared no one as he delt out correction and brought to light shortcomings. Even still, the cat kwami was not unnecessarily cruel; his advice, when not weaved into his flippant, dismissive episodes of idleness and pettiness, was surprisingly impartial and helpful when he was so inclined—considerate even, although Plagg was loath to admit the empathy at his core.

At once, the revelations of the afternoon, the emotional rollercoaster, caught up with him. The exhaustion must have become vividly apparent, because Derek’s hand settled weightily on Adrien’s shoulder, urging him to sit down once more.

A significant look from the alpha was immediately met with a succession of movement from Isaac, who soon appeared bearing a tray of what looked to be soup. “You should eat. Deaton should be here shortly to check you over, then you can rest,” he said plainly, shooing off the two girls flanking him to give him room before settling the tray onto the kid’s lap.

Plagg settled into the crook of his chosen’s neck, gently coaxing the teen to eat, while the rest of the pack likewise portioned themselves some dinner and dispersed between the formal dining room and living room where the meeting had taken place.

“With everything that you’ve told us, I still don’t have a clear picture as to what we may be dealing with,” Derek began after a while, addressing Plagg. “Are we dealing with druids or something else?”

The kwami paused his efforts to make Adrien eat more than just a few of spoonfuls of soup to reply. “Maybe,” he sighed, looking like he was effectively spent of the conversation as a whole, “Maybe not. Whoever it is, they’re working with powerful magic and at least a good background on druidic enchantments. That said, our time frame to mount either a defense or counterattack is dwindling. Our arrival at your Nemeton will not stay secret for long, and the caster will likely move to collect us soon.”

This drew a scowl across the Lycan’s visage, a radiating tension echoing throughout the Hale house.

Supernatural creatures had quite the sense of hearing.

Toxic green eyes leveled the pack alpha with severity; they tasted ash on their tongues. “As I mentioned prior, I will proffer a warning: Our enemy is not one but many, and given the circumstances, I suspect their power to be formidable. As such, do you _still_ wish to involve yourself and your pack?” It was indeed a warning, and a frank clarification of the danger to be faced in this whole ordeal.

The options were laid out patently: withdraw or stand alongside. The promise: the very real possibility of all hell breaking loose.

Derek’s eyes alighted across the room and adjacent doorway, noting how each member of his pack regarded him intently, waiting with bated breath. He then turned to look at Stiles, who’s very being radiated a resolve nearly unrivaled. 

The verdict wasn’t abstruse: it would be suicide to allow the embodiments of destruction and misfortune into the wrong hands. And it would be _cruelty_ to forsake the child before them. They’d made their decision the moment they’d chosen to bring the boy under their care.

And Derek wasn’t one to backtrack on his word.

Hazel eyes met slitted chartreuse. “Seems like we have our work cut out.” 

Stiles’ face broke out into a wild grin, amber eyes gleaming.

Adrien’s face was humorously blank aside from the color tinting his cheeks. 

Plagg’s smirk was feral.

“Welcome to the pack,” Stiles proclaimed gleefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, been a while! Life's crazy. Hopefully this longer chapter makes up for some of my absence. ...So much information in this one...! And angst! :D
> 
> I have to resist the impulse to slam through story content...the result would be a dissatisfying rush. The pace will be constant I hope, not slow, but not too quick. Different details and scenes in my mind have to be changed and reimagined as the story progresses, so please be patient.
> 
> In any case, thank you to all you lovely people who follow along with this story and to those who leave comments (it's the lifeblood to my writing)!! I hope you like it so far!  
> Let me know what you all think!


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